


Together

by panda_shi



Series: More Than You Know [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Avengers: Endgame (Movie) Spoilers, Canon Divergence - Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie), Canon Divergence - Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Canonical Character Death, Falling In Love, Fix-It of Sorts, Grief/Mourning, Guilt, Hopeful Ending, Hurt Tony Stark, Idiots in Love, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Jealousy, M/M, Not Avengers: Endgame (Movie) Compliant, Not Spider-Man: Homecoming Compliant, Post-Avengers: Endgame (Movie), Pre-Steve Rogers/Tony Stark, Protective Steve Rogers, Requited Unrequited Love, Second Chances, Steve Rogers Feels, Steve Rogers Needs a Hug, Survivor Guilt, Time Travel, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Tony Stark Has Issues, Tony Stark Needs a Hug
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-10
Updated: 2019-07-30
Packaged: 2020-02-29 09:52:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 41,931
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18775879
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/panda_shi/pseuds/panda_shi
Summary: Steve goes back in time at a point where he thinks he should have been present. Where he should have never left. This time, Steve will do everything to make sure this Tony doesn't go through what he did in Steve's reality. Whatever it takes.





	1. 1

**Author's Note:**

> Self beta'd. Will always edit/fix as I reread/revisit.
> 
>  
> 
> **Avengers: Endgame spoilers ahead. If you have not seen the movie, this is your final warning. Mind the tags.**

When Steve arrives in 2016, the Avengers compound is uninhabited, deathly still in its silence.

There is a hush that goes deep into its very foundation, buried in the ground, under the soil, the soul of what made it a home tucking itself away from the cold floors and desolate walls because even the paintings that had once hung in the corridor that Steve steps into is gone. There used to be a warm aesthetic to the compound no matter what corner you turn; maybe it was the lighting, or the potted plants in the corners, or the deceptively comfortable seating areas scattered about the compound, or just the sound of footfalls, the everyday humdrum of people, the sun that poured through the stretch of floor to single bulletproof glass, and the gentle breeze the sweeps through each time a door or a window is pushed open, as if the compound itself is exhaling a soft, comfortable sigh.

There is nothing here. Now.

The soul of the compound that Steve has learned to call home has chosen to save itself, going into a deep almost deathly still slumber, retreating into the walls, away from the very thin layer of dust that marks Steve’s boot prints as he walks through what he might as well call a void. Everything is gone, from the echo of conversation, laughter, rushed footsteps, sometimes dragging, sometimes still sleepy in the mornings, the absence of it all making the place lacklustre, stripped of color, bare like the tight vacuum of a loss that sits like a blackhole in his chest.

Walking through his now despondent home makes Steve thinks that maybe getting punched square in the face may actually hurt less than this pitiful sight.

(I needed you.)

When Steve steps into the common room, something in him cracks. The coffee table used to be littered with mugs or candy wrappers or some kind of take out container, or a plate with a half eaten sandwich. The cushions were almost always always out of shape, sometimes on the floor -- they’re all gone now, along with the rug that used to be under the glass coffee table.

Everything is stagnant, the windows sealed shut, the air cold, unnatural from the air conditioning, freezing even -- or maybe it’s just him thinking like it’s being in the ice again, when everything around him had been so bleak and cast in shadows, because surely, under hundreds of feet in the ocean, there had been nothing, just the cold. Steve always remembers the cold, and now, standing there in the middle of the most frequently used room in the entire compound, the chill manages to get under his skin, sneakily seeping under his fingernails and spreading into his joints. Steve wants to break something, or push the sofas askew, maybe even open a goddamn window to air out the place -- anything that can restore the familial chaos that used to be a norm for this room.

Steve turns around sharply, unsure if Friday’s presence is still within the compound or not. Steve has about an hour before sunset, the sky outside still bright and bathing half the compound with warm, spring light, while the rest remains in the shadows, hidden.

Today is the day Steve breaks into the raft.

Today is the day where what’s left of the Avengers, Tony’s half, would probably be called in to investigate, or chase, or something that involves a lot of paperwork, red tape and arrests. Steve remembers his mission being a success, remembers no one chasing them down. He doesn’t know if Tony even visited the raft after he had broken the rest of the team free, doesn’t know if Tony had entertained Ross’s demands to go on a global manhunt for the ‘renegades’.

He didn’t know a lot of things back then. Tony never called.

(No trust. _Liar_.)

Truth be told, Steve isn’t even sure what he had expected to find at the compound.

He’s not even sure what exactly he plans to achieve by making this extra trip in the past. Whatever confidence he had in getting a chance to make things right has all but joined the soul of the compound somewhere deep underground, leaving his chest achingly heavy and his thoughts a storm, because this is kind of his fault, isn’t it? He did this, this leaving everything behind, standing up for what liberty and freedom should be when in reality, after everything that has happened, it didn’t really matter. The price of freedom, when the Mad Titan comes knocking on earth’s stratosphere, won’t even matter.

When half the world - the universe - is snapped out of existence, freedom and liberty wouldn’t matter because what’s left in its wake is just pure, unadulterated chaos.

Steve has this knowledge _now._

He knows better.

Steve isn’t sure why his feet carries him to his office, the one with the best view of the compounds ‘backyard’. He distinctly remembers staring out at a hundred sunsets, and thinking that he’s never going to get tired of seeing something so incredibly beautiful. He has even painted a couple of it. He remembers telling Tony that too, and Tony had simply said, “Well, I’m glad you didn’t contest my suggestion then, when I insisted that this should be your office.”

Tony had smiled something small and quiet then, breaking the illusion of what may come across as cocky words, making it honest and soft instead, as he looks past the glass at something Steve cannot see.

Steve remembers many moments like that, when the words leaving Tony’s mouth may sound cutting, as sharp as a buck knife. But then you look a little closer, and it’s all just armor because Steve would notice the crinkle around the corners of Tony’s eyes, the soft set of his lips, or if something amuses him and he trusts the people around him,Tony’s nose would wrinkle as teeth peeks out in an unbidden smile that Tony can’t quite contain. Tony would hide that smile by ducking his head. Always, always by ducking his head. Not by turning away, not by looking to his left, or his right, Tony just tips his chin down, hide his eyes, because that where the truth always is. To make the gesture even more casual, Tony would shove his hands in his pockets if he was wearing something more formal, or into his back pockets if he were wearing denims. Denims would have the added gesture of a shoulder roll, as if to dissuade the people in the room that Tony isn’t about to laugh in their faces, or that he’s secretly making harmless fun of them. That he is just stretching, warding away a kink in his shoulder blade.

Only when Tony looks up from that head duck, would the amusement, if he chooses to, would be more visible, wide and open, his eyes laughing so loud, incredibly bright, even when his lips aren’t fully stretched to a grin. They always were bright, now that Steve thinks about it, when Tony looked on at the team that Steve knows saw as family, but would never really say it out loud. Now, years later, Steve remembers how vividly bright they were even when they looked at him.

Until they weren’t.

(Did you know?)

The reminder of how he’d probably killed the light in Tony’s eyes years before the arc reactor had gone completely dark slams into Steve when his footsteps slows to an almost dreamlike pace, as he rounds the corner and sees Tony sitting in his office through the glass walls, head turned towards the window, shoulders slumped against the backrest of the office chair. Tony doesn’t move a muscle, surrounded by everything that belonged to Steve. Steve’s office remains untouched, the things on his desk in the same order Steve remembers keeping from years ago. The picture of the monkey with a shield on a unicycle still remains by the window ledge, along with a few frames that Steve keeps telling himself he’ll hang up on the wall already, but never does.

It’s probably the only room that is untouched in the entire compound. The only place that hasn’t been stripped down to nothing.

And right there, in the middle of all of it is Tony. Alive. Breathing. Solid. Wrapped in golden light of the setting sun, looking a little wondrous, even when he looks beaten, small, and so, so incredibly alone in the empty compound.

Not under ground, not half burnt by the power of the infinity stones, not staring unseeingly with eyes partially open with not a single ray of light shining in its depths. Not anymore. Never again.

Something harrowing goes through Steve when he sucks in a breath that doesn’t quite go through his lungs. It doesn’t quite make it past the tightness of his throat. He stares at the vision before him, with nothing separating himself from Tony but a glass door that slides open when he approaches it, the only indication that the compound still remains functional, as Steve steps into his office in a daze that is infinitely warmer than the rest of the compound.

“I don’t know how you got past Friday, but you’ve got a lot of nerve coming back here, Rogers,” Tony says, words razor-edged, distanced, uncaring in its delivery, but aimed where it should hurt.

Steve opens his mouth to say something, to deliver an equally matching quip, because that’s what they do, the both of them, quip at each other. It’s their thing. Their teammates make fun of them because of it.

It’s a thing that Steve misses, maybe misses the most; it is one of the things he had been so happy about to have again when Tony returned to the compound, five years later. 

It’s also the first thing that Steve realises he will never have again after the dust had settled, when the weight of Tony’s casket sat on his shoulder that spring morning weeks ago.

Steve thinks he should say something like, I have my ways. Or, I still have a few tricks up my sleeve. Or maybe even, you didn’t retract my security clearance. Or something.

Anything. 

What comes out instead is a sound that Steve doesn’t think he’s made in a lifetime. It’s a noise that is half choked, half cry, maybe even something like strangled panic, the kind that he used to make before the serum, when New York would segue from fall to winter and it would exacerbate his asthma. Everything in him hurt, worse than rheumatic fever, worst than what he remembers of his scoliosis, or his stomach ulcers. It’s worse than angina, that for the briefest second, Steve wonders if his heart is actually failing him, that he should be getting help from the neighbors at this point, that his feet needs to _movemovemove_ or he’s not going to make it past the front porch, let alone the hospital.

Tony turns at the sound he makes, that horrible, embarrassing, almost shameful sound, and Steve’s watches, with every part of him swelling as big as the universe itself, tearing him at the seams, as Tony’s eyes widen, whatever quip he must have had on his lips dissolving, and he stands with more force than necessary, the movement jerky. Tony _stands._  Sudden. Concerned. He looks horrible, a little white-washed with paleness, bruise curving under his eye, over his cheekbone, lips parted in surprise. Eyes wide. There is light in them.

It’s achingly beautiful and alive.

Tony is a vision to behold, a halo glowing around him from the sun, the endless stretch of Eden-like green of the compound grounds beyond the glass a surreal backdrop to what looks like a dream.

“Steve?” Tony takes a step forward, and a few more, stopping until he’s just an arm’s reach away.

Steve, not Rogers, not Cap.

It shouldn’t hurt, but it does. God, it hurts.

Steve tells himself to calm down, to breathe, except he can’t, not when his grief comes up like a fast rising tide, overflowing and blurring his vision with salt. Time travel has always been a thing of fantasy, it was never a possibility. Even after his mission, after Thanos, after bringing everyone back — it still seems unreal, still hasn’t fully sunk in yet, the after-the-facts of war. Standing here, now, with Tony starting to look alarmed as Steve opens his mouth, lips trembling, every part of him shaking in his uniform, his tongue swollen in his throat, Steve allows his mind the luxury of pausing and actually digesting what’s before him first. The truth is, the ‘not us’ in the ‘some people move on’ spiel that he’s been telling the remnants of the team months ago should have actually been: not me.

Steve can’t move on. 

He didn’t know how back then after the media dubbed ‘Civil War’, he certainly doesn’t now.

“Is everyone okay? Steve, the team—“

Steve tries to speak, tries to form words but what comes out is something garbled. He reaches out suddenly, to grab onto what’s in front of him, in case it’s not real, in case Tony isn’t really here and he’s just seeing a ghost of someone he not only abandoned, but lied to, because war forces people to put their differences aside to conquer a bigger threat; it doesn’t mean forgiveness.

Tony flinches, visibly obvious in his recoil, takes half a step back but forcibly stops himself, keeping himself in place; being thrown off the roof of the One World Trade Center would probably hurt less at this point, Steve thinks.

Steve brings a hand up to his mouth, silencing another sob that tears past his throat, ducking his head and shaking his head at Tony. He keeps shaking it, as the tears streaks down his face like rivers, and Steve can do nothing but weep, shoulders hunched, apologetic, because saying that the team is fine would be the biggest lie, not when Natasha is dead, when Vision is dead. When Tony himself is never going to come back.

So Steve says nothing, goes down to his knees and keeps his hand firmly over his mouth, shoulders shaking with each breath he can’t seem to take. He says nothing when Tony goes down with him too, hands suddenly, incredibly warm on Steve’s shoulder, heat seeping through the blue Kevlar, eyes so, so wide, nervousness etched into every muscle of Tony’s face.

It’s all Steve can do, in his moment of utter weakness, to reach up to Tony, fingers holding on to Tony’s forearms like a lifeline, as he looks into Tony’s eyes and weeps like he has never wept before. Not for Peggy, not for the Howlies, not for Bucky. It scares Tony, seeing Steve like this, silences him like nothing else; it’s enough to make the guilt coursing through Steve’s blood thicken like untreated diabetes. Steve opens his mouth to speak again, to try to tell Tony to not be afraid, that this time, he’s here to help him make everything right, that he wants to make everything right, whatever it takes.

Because the truth is that losing Peggy and the Howlies had broken Steve’s heart when he woke up in the future. The truth is, despite Steve going to their funerals when they happened, despite him knowing that his heart from the past will not get over this loss, he knows he’s already lived through that loss. He’s had seven years after Peggy’s funeral, and while Steve accepts he’s lost his chance with her, she continued to live through the cracks in his heart that while never sealed through, somewhat manages to heal with time. Steve thinks of it as a badly broken leg that doesn’t quite heal right. It would hurt sometimes, when the weather is cold, or when it rains, but all the same, you learn to dance without the limp, you pull through.

And Bucky, well -- Steve saved him, didn’t he? Seventy-something years too late, but he had time to move on from the guilt of watching him fall into a white abyss. Steve still hasn’t his bad days, but isn’t that something that comes with guilt of not saving someone dear to you? 

Steve never had that with Tony. No closure, not for the things that mattered, he thinks. Their fractured friendship, their shattered trust, Steve’s lies and half assed promise of being there when Tony needed him -- the truce to fight and undo the snap doesn’t count. It shouldn’t.

“Steve,” Tony’s voice is firm, his hands are suddenly on Steve’s face, forcing him to look up, steadying Steve, acting as an anchor like Tony always have been, all this time, every time. A grounding force in a future that he loves, a future that st first, had been too fast for Steve to comprehend. “Hey. Hey, look at me. Look at me!”

Steve does.

Steve’s hands comes up over Tony’s, pressing them harder onto his cheeks, leaning into the warmth that seeps into his cheeks, at the feel of life still coursing through Tony’s hands.

“I’m sorry,” Steve chokes out, watching as Tony’s eyes go even wider, his eyebrows furrowing, jaw slacking with surprised confusion, alarm and just a hint of fear. “I’m so, so sorry.”

“Okay, okay…” Tony says, still trying to understand all this.  
  
Here is Steve again, making more trouble when he shouldn’t be. Steve tells himself that this will be last time, no more problems after this, no more fights, no more lies, just transparency, honesty, words and everything that it should have been from the beginning. Steve will not allow his judgment, his ideals, his beliefs this time to cloud his goals. None of it matters. It's not going to matter when everyone is gone. It's not. Nothing is worth that. 

What is the point of a future without its futurist?

But for now, in this very moment, Steve will allow himself to be weak one last time, to let selfishness course through his veins, punch is way through the fucking space in his chest, grab that blackhole in him that keeps swallowing everything around him, pry fingers into it and rip it apart. Steve leans closer, burying his face into Tony’s shoulder, wrapping his arms around Tony’s warm, strong, solid frame, exhaling deeply, the scent of tea tree oil and musk filing his nose, shutting his eyes as he focuses on the sound of Tony’s racing heart, under warm flesh that is so, so alive.

Tony’s hands shakily comes around Steve too, palms smoothing over Steve’s shoulder blade, the back of his skull.

And just like that, the black hole in Steve’s chest rips, releasing matter, light.

New stars.

This time, it’ll be okay.

Steve will make sure of it.

Whatever it takes.


	2. 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Self beta'd. Will always edit/fix as I reread/revisit.
> 
>  
> 
> **Avengers: Endgame spoilers ahead. If you have not seen the movie, this is your final warning. Mind the tags.**

Sunset stretches into every corner of Steve’s old office, the color of warm hearths and tangerines; Steve’s eyes, puffy and red, is fixed upon the horizon, his flushed face even warmer with the caress of the last orange rays before twilight invites the stars. He remains on the floor, gloves off and by his knee, palms on the ground, sitting there in the middle of something achingly familiar, but long destroyed and never to return again. He doesn’t move, not even when Tony returns, holding two open beer bottles by the neck, pausing by Steve’s shoulder to offer one to him.

“Found it in the fridge. Must be your lucky day,” Tony says, as Steve takes a bottle and looks up to a guarded, darkened gaze.

Steve murmurs his thanks, sunset forgotten, watching instead how Tony moves to lean against the parapet, sliding down on the floor, crossing his feet at the ankles and taking a long swig from his beer. Tony’s gaze remains on Steve, eerily focused, pupils blown wide. Somewhere in there, Steve can see a tendril of fear, swirling like cigarette smoke, slow and lazy -- it should bother Steve, the safe distance that Tony puts between them, the gauntlet watch he keeps strapped to his wrist gleaming under the fading light. It should bother Steve, how Tony may have already alerted the proper authorities, might just be bidding his time to arrest him.

It doesn’t.

The fear though -- well, that had been Steve’s doing. A dull ache flares in Steve’s stomach, festering like a bad infection somewhere in his gut. They stay like that, looking at each other, Tony trying to pick at the picture Steve is presenting before him, and Steve looking at Tony like he’s the only thing that matters.

(At this point, Tony really is the only thing that matters.)

“You wanna tell me what’s going on?” Tony asks.

“I don’t know where to start,” Steve admits, staring at liquid through the open bottle, watching it swirl before he takes a slow sip, cold bitterness soothing to his dry throat.

“How about you start with why you’re here,” Tony offers, eyebrow cocked, beer coming back up to his lips.

“You’re trusting me long enough to listen?” Steve sounds unsure, looking up all of a sudden.

Tony is silent for a moment, jaw tightening, throat bobbing as he swallows and stares at his hand, the one with the gauntlet watch, balling it into fist and releasing it. Steve doesn’t miss the tremble that goes through Tony’s hand, how he tucks it out of sight like it’s something shameful, to be afraid of someone who slammed their weapon repeatedly into your chest.

(Steve deserves it, he’s a monster to be afraid of. Sometimes, at night, he can still hear how the metal had yielded under the force of his blows. Sometimes, he dreams that it goes right through, and Tony ends up staring up at him unseeingly. Sometimes, when he remembers what he’s done to drive a rift between them, Steve wakes up with a suppressed gasp, his eyes wet.)

“The last time I trusted someone, he tried to take everything from me and get me killed in a cave. When that didn’t work, he stuck his hand into my chest, pulled the arc reactor out, and left me to die.” Tony’s lips presses down to a thin line, eyebrows furrowing, and all Steve can do is sit there helplessly. “The last time I trusted someone, he lied to me. Beat me down and left me when I needed him the most.” The words are whisper soft, a sharp blade in the dark. It hits Steve in throat, makes him look away in shame, as the weight of Tony’s gaze brushes over him like a Siberian blizzard. It makes Steve shiver, swallowing past the football sized lump in his throat. “So trust? No. But contrary to the team’s opinion of my ego, I _am_ willing to listen when Captain America falls to his knees and loses his shit in front of me… Jesus, I’m not that fucking heartless.”

The bitterness that punctuates the last statement makes Steve look up sharply. Tony is looking away, hurt disappearing from his face as the last ray of sunlight fades from the horizon. “No, no you’re not. Never were.” Steve sets his bottle down. “You’re not going to believe me, but I’ll tell you everything.”

Steve pulls the quantum realm navigator from one of his utility pouches, tossing it towards Tony’s direction. Tony catches it and stares at it, Friday blacking out the glass and turning the lights on. Steve watches as Tony’s eyes fixates on the piece of tech in his hand, setting his beer bottle aside, his right eyebrow arching up. It’s the look Tony wears when he’s trying to understand something, when seventy percent of his brain is occupied with the observation at hand, and the remaining thirty is open to listen to what’s going on around him. It’s Tony’s excited-distracted look. Steve swallows, his eyes prickling with sudden heat again, salt gathering at the corners as he rips his gaze away, drawing his legs to himself, burying his face in his hands, shaking his head and scrubbing his hands down his face. The gesture wipes the tears away before it falls, and when Steve looks up, Tony is staring at him again, that quiet, darkened look back on his face.

“Did I make this?” Tony asks, holding the quantum realm navigator in his open palm.

“Yes,” Steve nods, sucks in a deep breath tells Tony everything.

Steve doesn’t bend anything when he narrates what happens in the next seven years; he doesn’t water it down; he doesn’t try to make it logical; he doesn’t try to soften the blows; doesn’t hide the fact that Natasha dies, doesn’t come back, even after the snap is undone, even after he returns the stone in Vormir, a soul for a soul -- it doesn’t work that way, apparently. That they spend five years in chaos and in the dark, that Thanos breaks them and universe in ways no one can imagine. Steve tells Tony that maybe he had been right, that maybe they should have been together from the beginning, that if they had, maybe Tony wouldn’t have to leave behind a grieving widow and a fatherless child.

Steve tells him that his mission is to return the stones back to its proper reality, that he’s supposed to go back, because what’s left of the team is waiting. Steve tells him that the visions he’s been having for years, the knowledge of something beyond their skies coming for earth is true. It’s all true. That they should have listened. That maybe, a suit of armor around the world would have bought them _some_ time. That maybe, it's not a bad idea at all.

Tony is rendered speechless. Steve knows it’s from the absurdity of the bullshit that has left his mouth. Tony stares at Steve like he’s the biggest, most moronic clown in the circus.

The beer is warm now, flat. Steve drinks it anyway, looking at Tony, watching him try to swallow the havoc Steve has just thrown at his feet. It’s a lot to take in, Steve knows. He understands why Tony remains silent for a good while longer.

“So you’re here to warn me? You know that It’s not going to change _your_ reality, right?”

“But it’ll change yours,” Steve whispers, soft, the words hoarse, his chest bending inwards with an inhale he can’t suddenly take again. He closes his eyes, remembering again, how heavy Tony’s casket had been.  How his hands had trembled under its weight. 

Tony is suddenly up on his feet, flushed red all the way down to his neck, a show of his temper, his emotions rising to the surface, bitter and hot, as he throws his hands up in the air. “No, I’m not playing this guessing game with you. I am done doing that. You either say what you’re really up to or --”

“I came back for you,” Steve says, his words having the effect of liquid nitrogen, freezing the anger radiating out of Tony’s body with all the intensity of a supernova. “It’s not a future when you’re not a part of it, Tony…” Steve shrugs, helpless and looks up at the wide eyed look Tony is directing at him, chest heaving, breaths coming out in short puffs. “Not one I’m interested in anyway…”

“What does that even mean?” Tony looks confused, tired, beaten down, just like that day in the bunker.

“It means I’m here and I’m not leaving. You don’t have to believe me, you don’t have even have to buy what I’m selling, about the stones, about Thanos. But I’m not leaving, not until I know we’ve done -- that I’ve done everything I can do make sure that you don’t die. That there has to be another way to defeat this lunatic, that I don’t have to bury _you_.” Steve doesn’t realize he’s on his feet, that he has crossed the distance between himself and Tony, that he’s holding on to Tony like a lifeline, fingers desperate and digging into warm flesh, that his voice has gone up an octave. That Tony is looking at him with fear burning bright like embers in a pool of gold speckled brown. “Please -- a chance. That’s all I’m asking. Just until this is over, and if you want me gone then, I’ll go. I promise. But please, let me try to help you change this. Because you’re going to need _everyone_.”

Tony doesn’t move a muscle. Steve apologizes under his breath and takes a careful step back, releasing Tony and cursing foully, bringing hands to his face, scrubbing it down viciously, pacing the room, a nervous tremble going through him. Once upon a time, Steve cursing would have amused Tony. Tony would have poked fun at it, would not have allowed Steve to live it down. Now, Tony remains silent, taking two steps back to put distance between them. It sends something hot coiling in Steve's stomach, makes him want to punch something, break something, because that right there, Tony moving away from him, well, Steve deserves that.

Steve’s thoughts runs a mile a minute, trying to come up with options, one after the other. If Tony wants him gone, there are other ways he can make sure that earth has its own super powered army that can at least put up a better fight, one that can handle the disaster that will hit Wakanda and New York. Two years is plenty of time to set things in place. If push comes to shove, Steve thinks T'challa would at least lend him an ear.

Tony’s voice is ragged, hoarse, thick with suppressed emotion. Steve doesn’t know if its fear, if its nervousness, or what. “Y-You can’t stay here. Ross wants your head on a pike. Do you even _have_ a plan?”

“My plan depends on your answer,” Steve swallows again, shaking his head. “I was wrong, Tony…”

Tony turns around giving Steve his back, cursing under his breath. “Do you have a place to stay?” Steve doesn’t answer. Tony sighs deeply and shakes his head again, tossing the quantum realm navigator back at Steve. “Well, you can’t run around in that flag. Your things are still in your room. Get changed. I’ve got a place for you stay.”

Steve can only nod dumbly, tucking the quantum realm navigator away, leaving the room before Tony can change his mind.

They say the truth will set you free.

Steve can’t say he feels anything like that at all.

\--

The place to stay turns out to be a loft in Tribeca, all three floors of it sitting on top of a red brick building, a stark white contrast, with clear blue tinted windows. Steve has a clear view of the beautiful New York skyline, flourishing callery pear tree tops visible from the window, green peppered with golden blooms. It’s a lovely house, perfect in all its picturesque design of beige leather, wooden panels, and thick woolen patterned rugs, complete with the modern touch of a bright harmoniously colored throw pillows. Despite its lovely interior motif, the house is empty, lacking warmth that no lighting fixture, mood-light, or even the unused fireplace can ever hope to produce. It is spacious, wide, with floor to ceiling one way view glass that betrays nothing of who may be inside, sound proofed, and enough to house the entirety of the Avengers comfortably, if need be. It doesn’t surprise Steve that the rooftop is equipped with a down-scaled workshop and laboratory -- it’s Tony’s property after all.

The loft has a discreet alleyway that Steve can easily enter or escape from if he needs to; it's one of the main reasons why Tony chooses to offer this particular property for Steve to use. The windows will remain blacked out. So long as Steve remains discreet, there’s no reason for anyone to find him.

Tony gives him the tour, in which he points and tells him where what is, all without moving from his spot by the open concept kitchen, the one closest to the door.

“This is more than plenty, Tony, thank you,” Steve is sincere, and once more, he can’t keep his eyes off Tony. Not during the car ride, where he spends the entire time counting the curve of each lash-line on Tony’s cheek, and certainly not now.

It’s hard to look away. It’s hard to believe that Steve is here right now, watching someone breathe and speak, when Tony is never coming back.

Tony nods, then turns to leave, leaving a phone on the table. He taps it once, and Friday chirrups in greeting, uploading herself into the house.

Steve doesn’t stop him.

\--

Steve spends the next week preparing detailed reports on everything he can remember about the battle in Wakanda -- formation, strategy, their plan with Vision, the conversation that takes place when Bruce had returned, what Shuri said something about ‘reprogramming the synapses to work collectively’ instead of Bruce and Tony’s ‘non-sequential neuron attachment’. Whatever that even means.

Friday helps him. 

When it’s ready, Steve asks Friday to provide the information to Tony.

Tony doesn’t come, though.

Steve tries to tell himself that it’s okay.

\--

Steve works on a timeline, noting major events that takes place all around the world. Anything he can remember reading from newspapers, online news or may have seen on television.

He gives the exact time Clint and Scott agrees to their arrest, the exact date they return to American soil.

This information too, goes to Tony.

Tony still doesn’t come.

\--

A week segues into a month.

Steve has over a dozen sketchbooks filled with pictures of the war, the creatures the Black Order were commanding, the war ships that had loomed over Wakanda, and later New York. He draws Rocket’s spaceship, what he remembers of the interior and cockpit, of Planet 0269-S, how the land looked like, what Steve remembers of the flora and fauna, the farmhouse Thanos made for himself, how he looked like after Thor had swung Stormbreaker, how the carnage of purple flesh had slumped to the ground, how Thanos bled.

He draws Carol Danvers, pencils in details about what she had mentioned quietly, how she knows Fury, how Fury had activated a pager. He makes a list of her abilities, what he has seen in the battlefield, notes that she ex-air-force. 

He draws the Guardians of the Galaxy.

He draws Stephen strange and all the faces of the masters of the mystic arts he remembers during battle, how they had conjured up shields, and spells and so many other things that Steve doesn’t know what to call. He writes names he recalls from after the battle, thinks that it can be information Tony can look into if he can't find Stephen Strange or Benedict Wong.

Steve draws the time machine, the parts Tony had brought in once he was convinced that this may just work, lists down terms that had floated around between Tony and Bruce during its construction.

When Steve runs out of things to draw, he starts to draw the team. How they had planned the Time Heist. How during their preparation of divide and conquer, they had spent weeks in the compound brainstorming, sharing food and drink, reintroducing chaos into the stillness of the home.

He draws the soul of the Avengers’ Compound, uses colored pencils to make it look real, and for a moment, Steve thinks it almost is.

\--

One night, Steve starts to draw Tony. Hundreds of pictures, all in color -- Tony speaking, Tony drinking coffee, Tony with a soldering iron, Tony doing some of the heavy lifting, Tony working, Tony in his armor, Tony taking off his armor, Tony rubbing his head while only his black under-suit, Tony conversing with Rocket and Nebula, Tony angry.

Tony so, _so_ angry.

Tony ripping the arc reactor off his chest.

Tony slamming it onto Steve’s palm.

Tony looking like he’s so afraid, and so alone, and tired, and weak. Defeated.

Tony telling him to run.

Steve flings the colors pencils across the room, leaving it to clatter in a mess by windows, as he presses his palms into his eye sockets and cries.

\--

Friday asks Steve if he wants the newest set of drawings to be scanned and sent to Tony.

Steve says, “Sure.”

There’s no point hiding anything. Steve doesn't care what it may even look like at this point. He's not bothered to hide the fact that he misses Tony, that the thought of him, dead, or far, far away, his anger and distrust doesn't make everything in Steve crumble and ache in a way he didn't think possible.

\--

A month and a half into Steve’s self-imposed house arrest, he pulls his Captain America uniform out from the closet. He folds it neatly, wraps it a laundry bag, before packing it away into a metal box. His just-in-case extra tubes of Pym particles gets stored into an airtight case too, along with the quantum realm navigator. The only thing Steve keeps outside of the box that he closes and locks away is the compass his father had given him, the pair of dog tags with his identity, and the triangular housing unit for the nanites and arc reactor of Tony’s armor; it's the only three things from his past that still carries some sort of meaning to him.

(Tony’s heart, even now, is still cold and dead.)

He’s not Captain America anymore.

Not in this reality, anyway.

\--

One night, Steve spends hours in the kitchen staring at Peggy’s photo before he makes the decision and pries the photo free of his compass. He takes one of the decorative ashtrays from the living room, murmurs a prayer for the dead before he sets the photo on fire.

He stares at the embers dying, until there’s nothing but ash.

Steve doesn’t love any Peggy less by doing this; he will always love her. Time may have taken her away from him, but she will always have a place in his heart.

This. Steve knows, is a long overdue goodbye.

Steve is thankful that he got to see her one last time.

Peggy, after all, managed to live a life without him.

\--

Steve looks at the mirror, almost two months later, at his thick beard, his long hair -- it’s way past his ears now, covers half of it. There’s a bottle of hair dye by the sink. It takes a long while for Steve to debate whether or not he should keep the long hair and beard. He'd look a little too similar to his other self in this reality. But having a clean shaven face also makes him easily recognizable.

Steve stares at the pair of scissors for a long time, before he picks it up and gets to work.

An hour later, Steve stares at his darker, shorter hair, darker brows and trimmed beard. It’s not the thickest beard he’s worn, but it covers most of his face, a completely different look from the iconic golden war-poster child the world has come to know Steve Rogers as. Steve also thinks that if he goes out in public with sunglasses and a baseball cap, he would look like any Crossfitter in New York.

That evening, Steve is seated in the living room, working his way through the last of the pasta he made the night before, when he turns on the news and sees the coverage of the aftermaths of the Staten Island ferry disaster. There’s a cell phone video coverage of Ironman coming to the rescue, pushing the two halves of the ferry back into one, keeping it intact.

Steve picks up the phone Tony left him weeks ago and sends a text to the only contact available:

_You okay? Is there anything I can do to help?_

Tony doesn’t answer.

(Steve pretends that Tony's silence doesn't break what's left of his heart.)

\--

The press conference that Steve remembers vividly finally arrives, televised live on all major news channels, one breezy September morning. Steve remembers watching this on Youtube, in a crowded busy market street in Damascus. He remembers the wide smile on Pepper’s face, how Tony had grinned at the cameras, when he proudly announces their engagement to the public.

Steve waits for the news to come.

It doesn’t.

Tony and Pepper, instead, announces the expansion of the Avengers’ Compound, at the possibility of hiring new Avengers. They talk of the future ahead, to rebuild, to have a strong united front while working with the World Security Council.

Steve doesn’t realize that his lungs has stopped functioning.

He doesn’t realize his face is starting to hurt from smiling so wide, warmth spreading in his chest, hope expanding like the vastness of space.

This time, it tastes just a little sweeter.

\--

Tony knows he’s given into fear when Friday chirrups her report on the progress of the Iron Legion: forty percent complete.

Come spring next year, Tony will have enough of a defense system in place to at least help, if not buy time, for a stronger response team to get on site. If anything, the Iron Legion is meant to provide additional support for evacuation and extraction of civilians rather than be combatant. 

He tells himself it’s not exactly fear that makes him stare at the night sky, images of Steve’s drawings flashing before him, the scene of the battle, the carnage, of faces he’s yet to meet. Tony tells himself that it isn’t fear that makes him think of hiring new heroes, expand the Avengers roster, to actually weaponize the arc reactor just so that he can have more firepower. That it isn’t fear that makes him come up with a way to manipulate the armor, infuse it with nanotechnology, give him more options in terms of weapons -- compact, small, with a thousand possibilities in terms of offense and defense.

Tony tells himself that he isn’t afraid of Steve Rogers, because there’s nothing to be afraid of. 

Steve is just a man. Stronger than most, but still just a man.

But Tony spends more hours awake than resting, his body crumbling from within, coming apart with fatigue and only fueled with a paranoia he can’t shake away. Like this, Tony gets better at re-learning and remembering the things that he doesn’t want to happen. Like this, Tony is trapped with his demons that are armed with longer claws, and sharper teeth. Like this, it makes him hide and want to continue to hide in the confines of workshop, blacking out the rest of the world, as he buildsbuildsbuilds, invents new monsters, look for more solutions, grasping at the desperation to survive, to keep everyone safe.

Tony doesn’t know how to hush the noise that swirls in his mind, the whispers of accusation of why he didn’t do enough, that he could have saved them. It comes almost every night, ever since Steve had walked through the glass doors of his old office — Steve who is older, laugh lines and crows feet a little more pronounced, just a tiny bit, and all that’s does nothing to dull Steve’s handsome face. Those disarmingly beautiful, kind eyes.

(Liar. Goddamn liar!)

It comes every time Tony so much as takes a nap, the scene of space opening up, of mother ships lining way up above, positioned to attack, with the backdrop of a billion stars.

Tony isn’t afraid of Steve. He’s afraid of what Steve is telling him.

After all, saying that he isn’t believing a word that’s falling out of a liar’s mouth is the biggest lie Tony can ever tell himself.

If he really did think Steve was lying, he wouldn’t have invested billions of dollars building defense systems for a war Steve says is coming.

\--

Tony expects Steve to leave. Disappear. Go back to wherever the fuck.

But Steve doesn’t.

Upon inquiry, Friday tells him that Steve stays in, uses the small gym by the workshop, cooks most of his meals, makes use of the pantry, hardly goes out unless its for a very late run at night.

Steve doesn’t leave.

Tony tells himself it’s only a matter of time.

\--

Tony starts a countdown to Steve’s departure.

The days stretch.

Steve still doesn’t leave.

\--

Tony does his best to not think of Steve’s words, of him coming back in time, of Steve admitting that he was wrong.

Tony forces the image of the way Steve looks at him, reverent, happy, relieved.

He doesn’t want to know what it means. To be looked at like that.

(Like Tony matters. Like there is love in the Captain’s good heart for the Merchant of Death.)

Tony refuses to know what ‘I came back for you’ may entail.

Or why a future that doesn’t include him is something Steve is not interested in.

(Because it sounds like love, doesn’t it? And you know too well by now that love is a lie, love makes you do stupid things. Love hurts. If love was none of those things, Steve leaving you wouldn’t hurt as much, right?)

\--

At night, when Tony pauses in reprogramming AIs he’s kept inactive since Jarvis for a cup of coffee, he thinks back to the day Steve had wrapped his arms around him, how Steve had nearly crushed him in his desperate hold, how the sound of Steve’s sobs had wracked through his frame, how the only successful Super Soldier was reduced to something small, weak, and nothing super at all.

Tony thinks of how damp his shoulder had been after that, how Steve’s warm breath had brushed over his neck with each exhaling sob, with each desperate inhale for breath he seemed to struggle with at the time. He thinks of how Steve hasn’t buried his face into Tony’s shoulder, uncaring it revealed things about him, if it made Steve look weak, if saying Tony’s name over and over again makes less of a man, less of a hero.

Tony remembers the feeling of petrification going through him like poison, how he knelt there on the floor, absolutely -- hilariously -- helpless. Never in Tony’s years did he think the day will come when Steve would be brought down to pieces by his death.

Steve tells him that he’s the world’s greatest hero.

Steve tells him that he, Tony Stark, Ironman, is the bravest man he knows. That the world owes it survival to his greatest sacrifice.

A part of Tony isn’t surprised that he did what he did in Steve’s reality.

Tony never truly cared for his own survival; he only cared for the few people in his life and sometime after the battle of New York in 2012, the survival of humankind. The legacy he would leave behind. 

Tony doesn’t view his death as a big loss. The world will move on.

Tony just isn’t sure why Steve is taking it too hard. If death is inevitable, then, well, how did the saying go? Part of the journey is the end, or something?

(That’s a lie; you know exactly why Steve thinks like that. You know that feeling well, that desperation to protect those close to your heart. Isn’t that why Ultron was born? Because Steve was dying and you couldn’t bear the sight of him dead?)

\--

Tony finds time to catch up on the last of the sketches Steve sends his way after a meeting with the World Security Council in the backseat of his limousine, flicking through the holographic scans before him. He hasn’t had the time to look through them, not after that mess with Spiderman, not when his schedule has been filled to the brim with multiple trips across Asia.

The sketches, though, are nothing useful, just memories of Steve’s future. It’s somewhere towards the end that it stops being about the team and starts becoming more about Tony. Tony stares at pictures of himself, in and and out of the armor, stares at the careful, detailed lines that goes into his appearance, how he ages, how he looks like in the future, how he looks deathly ill upon his return to earth, bones peeking from his chest, ribs prominent, neck long, cheekbones hollowed.

He stares at the picture of himself ripping something off of his chest, frowning when he flicks to the next picture, and the one after that.

It looks exactly like the prototype he has designed for the nanotech-housing unit for the Mark 50.

He isn’t sure how to handle this new information. 

“Fuck...”

\--

Ignoring Steve doesn’t make him leave, apparently.

Steve texts him on thanksgiving, punctuates it with a smiley face emoticon. A second later, there’s a .gif of a dancing turkey with sunglasses.

It is so fucking silly. 

Yet it tightens something in Tony’s chest, makes something swell at the back of his throat, as big as a watermelon. In a fit of frustration, Tony hurls the closest object to his hand across his office space in the Avengers Compound. It breaks the glass door, the sheer force of the paperweight sending a spray of glass outwards, startling whoever it is in the hallway with a shocked cry. Tony’s anger, his helplessness glitters like a thousand diamonds on the polished floor, just as the rest of him starts to come apart bit by bit, because this here, this insignificant, stupid, fucking, useless text message, used to be the highlights of Tony’s day years ago. He remembers the glee that would course through him at the idea of Captain America, old man Steve from the forties, communicating like a millennial through the use of .gifs -- it had been an absolute hoot. Steve always finds the most ridiculous .gifs. 

It had stopped being as frequent after Ultron, before stopping completely after Peggy’s funeral.

“Goddamnit…” Tony hisses, hating himself a little more for missing something so stupid. So useless.

\--

Clint comes home.

Then Scott.

Just like Steve tells him, the exact same date.

Then, a little after that, Ross rains inquiry after inquiry on Tony, asking him if he has any news on Rogers and the rest of the renegades; apparently, there’s intel that the renegades were spotted in Homs, taking down pockets of ISIS terrorists, judging by the description provided by interpol and witnesses at the time.

It’s also the first time Vision disappears. Tony finds out later that he goes on a little excursion trip in Marrakech to meet with Wanda.

Just like Steve tells him.

Tony doesn’t have the heart to get mad at Vision. He’s actually a little jealous of Vision. After all, there’s something to be said about going after the person you love, no matter what’s going on, right? It’s respectable, follow your heart and all that jazz. Then again, Vision is young and so is Wanda. Love is for children. There is no love for men like Tony Stark. 

Men like him are meant to withstand betrayal and lies because Starks have Iron in their spine. 

So Tony denies everything Ross throws in his direction of course, like he’s not hiding a wanted fugitive in his loft in Tribeca. Like Steve never sent him a phone through FedEx, or a half assed apology of a letter, or that Tony can, if he wants to, get a hold of him.

In a fit of aggression, he shoots Steve a text, angry, irritated, headache throbbing in his temple:

_What the fuck am I supposed to do with this antique of a phone you sent me?_

Steve responds almost immediately:

_Call him._

Tony loses it.

He hits the call button hard enough that it almost cracks the screen on his phone. When Steve picks up, he all but snaps his next question, “And tell him _what,_  exactly? Hmmm? Got any clues from the future on how to handle that, Rogers?”

“The truth,” Steve answers, gently, kindly, a line being cast to Tony’s unmoored ship in a stormy sea. The syllables shatters the last of Tony’s resolve, making him curse. It is all he does these days, curse that is. “Tony…”

The syllables of his name come out soft from Steve’s lips, a gentle caress as Tony brings a hand up to his temple, scrunching his eyes shut, gritting his teeth. It’s scary, how Tony absorbs it all like a dry sponge, holds on to it because he doesn’t know who else to talk to about the man from the future. Not Pepper, not Rhodes, not Vision -- who the fuck would believe him when he tells them: hey, so, I’ve got a Steve Rogers from the future who came back to save me from my apparent death hiding out in my loft. Oh and I’m rebuilding the Iron Legion, by the way, just so you know, okay?

“If you’re worried that he won’t listen, that he won’t hear you out, you have nothing to worry about. I promise.”

“Your promises means shit to me right now. It’s a goddamn two way street, Rogers,” Tony’s voice cracks a little. “You could have called, too.”

“I should have,” Steve pauses. “I should have…” Silence passes for a full minute. “Call him, Tony. Set up a meeting place. And when you go, please take me with you.”

Tony hangs up and drinks himself to a blind stupor.

\--

It’s three weeks later, when Ross comes making demands of him again, asking him if he knew that Rogers and his team was going to take down another group of terrorists in hiding in Sana’a. Tony is not surprised at this point to discover that this particular successful mission is in the list of Steve’s timeline. A lot of things have stopped surprising him. Tony denies it again, puts on a show about having no idea what the hell Ross is talking about, tells Ross that he can’t keep harassing him for things he doesn’t know, that just because Steve is somewhere in the Middle East taking down terrorists, doesn’t mean he sends Tony fucking postcards.

Tony arrives in New York after being away for a week in Europe, tugging his coat tighter around himself as he stares at the wintry trees that stand like ballet dancers poised to show the world their strength in how they remain so still in the seasonal gusts. The leaves are gone, they are stripped bare, and yet there they are, standing proud, as if the white topped brown branches is their crowning glory all along. Tony stares up at the bare scarlet oak and black cherry tree tops as he crosses the small walk between the parking lot to the compound, eager to get warm, aching for something to ease the chills in his fingers.

Winter used to be his favorite season as a child, because winter had meant seeing Maria. Winter had meant Christmas trips and being able to leave boarding school like the other children. Winter, for a brief period of time, had meant spending time in their family lodge in Geneva, drinking hot chocolate by the fireplace and Maria reading Pinocchio to him before bed. A good portion of his happiest childhood memories takes place in winter.

But then he loses his family during winter.

His first overdose that lands him in the hospital at nineteen for days, weeks after his parents’ funeral, also takes place during winter.

Jarvis passes away, years later, during winter, too.

He almost loses Pepper to Killian and Extremis during Winter, the first crack in their relationship as a couple, something Tony didn’t even know about, until it was too late.

Then there’s Steve. And the months long winters of Siberia.

Tony can’t stand the cold anymore, not like before. Not when winter means remembering unpleasant grief, losses that are never to return, lies that can never be taken back. His steps quickens as he seeks shelter in the depths of his quiet office, where he prepares for the meeting with the World Security Council to pitch the additional changes he wants to propose to the Sokovia Accords.

The meeting goes on for hours, and by the end of it, Tony is exhausted by the constant tug of war, the political circles they’re all doing. It’s just useless, at this point. Tony has intel — apparently —that has proven itself reliable.

Tony pulls out the flip phone from his pocket, something he carries around with him since he received it months ago. And before he can chicken out or put off the dreaded call, he hits the call button on the only existing contact.

The phone rings three times before it connects.

“There’s something I need to tell you, show you. Can we meet?” Tony asks, swallowing thickly, unsure if will even be Steve on the other end of the line.

“Of course. Whatever you need. When?”

Steve sounds relieved. He sounds breathless with surprise. Wondrous, even.

(Tony tries not to think of how he can read the tonal changes in Steve’s voice so well.)

Tony sucks in a shaky breath and brings a hand to cover his mouth, voice shaking when he suggests Turkey, a week from now. It wouldn’t be off course for Tony, especially since he’s got a business trip to make to Dubai around that time. It won’t look suspicious for him to pause somewhere in the middle for a little downtime.

\--

Tony forges a new identity for Steve -- passport, social security number, the works.

When it’s complete, two days before his trip to Dubai, Tony faces the proverbial elephant he’s been avoiding from day one.

The loft is quiet and empty when Tony steps in, a little before midnight, envelope tucked under his arm. There’s no sound, no presence anywhere.

“Friday, is he here?” Tony asks, setting the envelope down on the counter as he steps into the living room, tugging his coat off and draping it over the backrest of the leather couch.

“Mister Rogers has gone for a jog. He left ten minutes ago,” Friday responds.

“Mister?”

“Mister Rogers has specifically asked me to stop addressing him as Captain Rogers,” Friday clarifies. “He says he no longer carries that title in this reality since it belongs to his other self.”

Right. Of course.

Tony drops himself on the couch, craning his neck upwards and closing his eyes. His hands on the cushions flatten, tired sigh exhaling past his lips, as the soft scent of detergent, clean laundry and something a little citrusy fills his nose. It’s clean, fresh, disciplined. It’s so distinctively Steve. He must have been lying on the couch before deciding to go for his run. Tony huffs a sound amusement at the fact that he’d pick up on these things, like how Steve smelled like. Or how he must have been leaning against his right side on the couch, ankle tucked under his knee, a book cradled in his hand or maybe a sketchbook. It’s a familiar sight to Tony, something he’s seen frequently over the years when the Avengers resided in the compound, once upon forever ago, now it seems.

Steve had a favorite spot in the couch, the one closest to the kitchen counter, for some reason. Tony remembers telling him one time that most people who wants to wind down for the evening by reading, would normally choose so sit by the window. Steve had smiled boyishly wide at him then, amused and sheepish at the same time.

“I’m closer to the kitchen this way. Less distance from the snacks,” Steve says; the serum didn’t just boost him in size and strength. It had also boosted his appetite. Tony has seen Steve and Thor go toe to toe in a hotdog and burger eating competition; it’s quite funny once you get over how gross it can get.

Tony remembers being so amused at Steve’s casual admittance at being lazy with crossing the small distance between the couch and, say, the bowl of fruit and packet of thin mints on the counter.

The memory sweeps over the back of Tony’s eyelids like a warm caress. Once it passes, it leaves behind an ache he doesn’t know what to do with.

Because the truth is, Tony misses Steve so very much, too.

\--

Tony inhales suddenly when he wakes up with a surprised jolt just as his hands slips over the edge of the couch. He’s lying on his back, staring at the round, light fixture of the ceiling, sunlight pouring through the window, the smell of fresh brewing coffee and toast filling his lungs. There’s a blanket over him, a pillow under his head, his shoes tucked under the coffee table.

Tony blinks the sleep away, rubbing his eyes as he sits up and finds Steve behind the counter, staring at the coffee pot as it brews. The shuffling sound on the couch makes Steve turn, and right there, Tony registers the darker hair, the beard, the darker brows. He looks nothing like the poster child for war bonds, no golden boy here. Just someone who looks at home, who smiles at Tony like he’s a sight for sore eyes, dressed in a t-shirt and lose sweatpants, standing barefoot and looking so relaxed. So at home.

For a traitorous moment, the sight of Steve like this sends warmth curling somewhere deep in Tony’s abdomen, makes him heady with how beautiful this sight truly is. 

“Good morning,” Steve says, as he turns to pour two cups of coffee. “You were asleep when I got back. I didn’t want to wake you; you looked like you could do with a few hours.”

Tony isn’t sure why he can’t find words to respond to that. He hums instead, pushing himself off the couch to a sitting position, tugging his tie and inner blazer off, rubbing the rest of the sleep off his face. He joins Steve in the kitchen, taking a seat in one of the bar stools, accepting the cup of steaming coffee, wordlessly taking a sip. He watches Steve take a drink from his cup too, watches Steve set his mug down and take the toast out of the toaster. He butters them, serves it on a plate, leaving it between him and Tony on the counter like some sort of olive branch.

“Do you want eggs?” Steve asks.

“No,” Tony says, immediate, quick on the decline. Then he amends with a, “Yes. Please.”

Steve smiles again, and gets to work. When it’s done, Tony stares at his plate: two scrambled eggs, buttered, salt and pepper, served on a bed of cooked spinach. It’s exactly how Tony likes his eggs, a reminder of better days in the compound when sometimes, if Tony happens to be in the kitchen during the wee hours of the morning, a little after Steve’s morning run, they’d have breakfast together. Steve would always offer to make him breakfast, since he’s making some for himself. Steve is nice like that.

(Did you know?)

Tony doesn’t realize he’s staring at his plate for a while, how something prickles around the corners his eyelids, water filling his lungs and belly, like he’s drowning. Tony’s hand shakes, the mug making audible clinking noises against the counter, as he swallows thickly.

The sudden enveloping warmth on Tony’s hand startles him, makes him inhale sharply, looking up from his plate at the quiet look of understanding on Steve’s face with a soft sound of surprise. Steve’s hands are steadying Tony’s, an anchoring hold, when everything in Tony is crumbling to pieces. There’s guilt in the azure depths of Steve’s eyes, along with acceptance and threads of hope. Tony doesn’t pull his hand away, and Steve tightens his hold Tony’s hand. The softness in Steve’s expression, the joy that starts to sparkle in those beautiful — god, they’re so blue — eyes is almost blinding in its sparkle under the morning light. It stays there, when Tony doesn’t immediately stand from the table to leave. It grows brighter when Steve sits down, picking up a piece of toast and taking a sip of his coffee, eyes sweeping over Tony like a gentle caress. Patient. Understanding. Accepting.

Tony eats his breakfast. He finishes his coffee and when Steve asks if he wants more, he nods.

“I called him,” Tony says, sudden, soft, voice hoarse as Steve pours him his second cup of coffee. Tony reaches for the still sealed and untouched envelope on the counter, sliding it across and towards Steve. “Turkey. He agreed. That’s your cover.”

Steve pours himself coffee too, before he opens the envelope, going through his new identity. “Your bodyguard? Happy is allowing it?”

“Happy isn’t my boss,” the words are tarty and it earns Tony a huff of amusement from Steve.

“Robert Evans, Boston, Massachusetts. Huh.” Steve is grinning, easy, open. “Really?”

“You don’t get to picky,” Tony mutters, watching as Steve jiggles out a piece of technology, one that resembles a small earpiece from the envelope. “I’m sure you recognize that. SHIELD had it at their disposable. I tweaked with the holographic quality. It won’t interfere with security cameras. I’ll get you new fingertips for the biometrics scans at the airport on the day of.”

“When’s the meeting?” Steve asks, tucking everything back into the envelope.

“Five days,” Tony’s voice sounds distant to his ears. He falls quiet and stares at his mug again.

Tony’s expression must have betrayed his anxious discomfort of what is to come because Steve’s voice comes out whisper soft, when he says, “Hey, it’s going to be okay. I’ve got you. You’re not alone. Not anymore…”

Tony looks up, the word _liar_ at the time of his tongue.

But Steve looks so honest, determined in his promise, that the accusation just dissolves.

It doesn’t hurt any less.

Steve must have seen it flit across Tony’s face, because Steve swallows too, a furrow etching between his brow.

“If what you say really is true, then maybe one day I’ll learn to believe in you again.” Tony watches as something raw cut across Steve’s expression, watches him duck his head to hide it, even when it’s too late.

“I can wait,” Steve answers. “I’m good at waiting.”

“That might be a really long wait, buddy,” Tony points out.

“I know,” Steve nods, agreeing, not contesting anything Tony throws in his direction. “But you’re worth it.”

Liar, Tony wants to say.

He doesn’t.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For anyone interested, this is what I had in mind for the following:
> 
> [Steve's current look.](https://i.pinimg.com/originals/4b/c1/4b/4bc14b8b030855d17e1349681c11fa98.jpg)  
> [The loft.](https://schlicks.files.wordpress.com/2011/09/tribeca-penthouse.jpg)  
> [The living room.](http://cdn.home-designing.com/wp-content/uploads/2018/01/flying-pendant-lights-colourful-stools-kitsch-living-room.jpg)
> 
>  
> 
> And I'm lazy, so Robert Evans is actually Christopher Robert Evans. 
> 
> Thank you for reading if you've gotten this far!


	3. 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Self beta'd. Will always edit/fix as I reread/revisit.
> 
> Avengers: Endgame spoilers ahead. If you have not seen the movie, this is your final warning. Mind the tags.

Steve becomes Tony’s shadow during his meets and greets with sheikhs and influential businessmen all across Dubai’s thriving metropolis. He watches Tony schmooze, discuss ridiculous figures and sign documents that will ensure that Stark Industries has a prominent presence in the upcoming Expo-2020, all while sipping on expensive Arabic coffee from a 20-karat gold glazed _finjan_.

Steve doesn’t care what Tony says, per se — money wise, that is.

What he does care about is watching Tony build repertoire in a room full of aspiring young men and women hoping for a better future in the region. It’s fascinating, watching Tony give a piece of himself, watching Tony tell the crowd a little bit of his own hopes and dreams of a thriving future, of man and machine working harmoniously towards something better. He tells them of his strong belief that in order for brilliant minds to grow, contribute, and succeed, it must always starts from imagining the impossible. Tony tells them how they’ve already succeeded in turning a part of a barren wasteland to a thriving metropolis, something the entire world certainly didn’t think was possible in such short amount of time; he tells them to imagine what more they can achieve, to see an endless stretch of green instead of sand, if only people can harness sustainable, clean energy.

Tony tells them: what if.

He tells them how he wants to succeed and have this much presence in Expo-2020 because the region -- and by extension, the world --  deserves equal accessibility to the best technology mankind is able to achieve. He tells them about how the future shouldn’t be about weapons of mass destruction, that he hasn’t - doesn’t - want to build weapons to be used against mankind, but rather, the future should be about integrity, about a legacy that not only their forefathers can be proud of, but something that can pave the betterment of future generations.

The world should care about each other, the way a family should care about each other.

And from behind dark aviators, Steve keeps a straight face as his chest swoops inwards uncomfortably as Tony tells the crowd to dare to dream and hope, that impossible is only limited if they want it to be. He tells them that doctors had told him that it’s impossible for him to live a normal life after his chest injury in 2009, that the arc reactor in his chest is going to eventually diminish his lung capacity, which it did, Tony admits -- makes a joke about it, too, how it sucks that he can’t do as many push ups anymore. He tells them that the injury came with countless other side effects. At this, Tony _roll_ s his eyes dramatically from behind baby blue tinted glasses.

“Hasn’t stopped me, has it?” Tony says, confident, grinning, unabashed, proud. “I may be a genius, but that almost got me. And let me tell you, if I, with all this injury, drama and limitations can still do what I do, I can’t imagine what all of you, who still have age in your favour, can achieve. If you’re already walking towards the future? Let Stark Industries and the Maria Foundation help you _run_ towards it. I always did think you have to run first before you could walk.”

Tony gets awed smiles, warm laughs and a loud applause reverberating throughout the room.

It’s the sight of that joy, that excitement, that glimmer of a hopeful dream of a future churns into something disgustingly nauseating at the pits of Steve’s stomach, and for the first time during this entire ordeal playing the role of Tony’s bodyguard, he looks away, swallowing past the suffocating lump in his throat.

Tony is always the happiest when he talks about technology, about bettering what already exists, about helping others get better results, if only because, _why the hell not?_

Tony is also the most beautiful when he talks about the future.

It shatters the softest parts of Steve, watching Tony like this, that he almost cries again, right there, on the side of small stage.

It cuts into the depths of Steve’s being, knowing that he could have been here with Tony all along, if he’d only compromised a different way, instead. If they had communicated better, if they had sat down and truly explored all their options, hell, if Steve had only asked Tony to come with him in Leipzig, or before Leipzig, if Steve had only spoken the truth instead of not speaking at all.

Steve realizes that somewhere along the way, like the many hopeful engineers, doctors, investors and leaders in the room, Steve too had been dreaming with wide eyes open all along, right there, when the team had been whole.

When Tony had been by his side.

 

*

Tony makes them all believe in the impossible.

Steve is reminded that he, once upon time, had learned to believe in the impossible, too.

That with Tony, the stars aren’t so far out of reach after all.  


*

That night, as Steve lies in one of the executive suites of the Fairmont The Palm, his belly full of dinner and hospitality courtesy of the ruling family, he realizes that he wants to continue in believing the impossible. That one day, he can look at the future, can look at Tony and not want to cry, not remember how Tony’s eyes had looked like flat, black mirrors, how his charred flesh had reeked and how heavy the weight of his death had been.   


*

It takes three days to draft the final agreement and secure Stark Industries’ gigantic presence in Expo-2020. Three days of dizzying meetings with several brilliant minds, and even deeper pockets before Tony looks up after the boardroom in the Burj Khalifah is vacated with a quiet look of triumph. Tony’s lips are parted, a soft sigh of relief passing through them as he tucks the envelope under his arm and picks up a bottle of water from the table, emptying it in one go.

They’re alone in the boardroom, with floor to ceiling view of the brilliant blue horizon, with the sea a stretch of emerald under their feet. From their current height, the world curves. Tony leans against the glass, pressing his forehead against it, unperturbed by the height. Steve thinks he looks exhausted, a little roughened around the edges. He also notices how Tony is a lot more slender, his jawline sharper, cheekbones a little more pronounced compared to Germany. But the bruises are gone.  
  
Steve thinks it’s a small triumph.

Tony calls Pepper, relates the good news. From where Steve stands, he hears Pepper saying that’s-great, thank-goodness and a lot of other pleasant responses followed by how she’ll handle things from there. When the call ends, Tony helps himself to another cup of _gahwa_ , eyes focused somewhere on the horizon.

“You did well,” Steve says, voice soft, not wanting to disturb the look of triumphant peace Tony is currently wearing.

 

“If it works, this region is going to thrive. Might just be the next big thing,” Tony sighs, before he steps away from the glass window and buttons his suit jacket. “God, I’d kill for a cheeseburger right now.

 

“We can get you a cheeseburger, Mister Stark.” Steve says, the words are easy, and and it may have been a trick of the light, but Steve swears he sees a sliver of golden amusement in the depths of Tony’s eyes.   


*  


They drive all the way out to The Walk to order take away the most popular burger place on Tripadvisor. Tony orders everything off the menu, all kinds of toppings, all kinds of combinations.

They find a quiet spot away from the gathering crowds taking advantage of the rare pleasant weather with only two large paper bags between them. Tony rummages through the bag, pulls out two burgers and a milkshake for himself and then gestures that the rest towards Steve.

Steve thinks it’s a little much. He says as much.

“You’re kidding, right? I’ve seen you devour three times this amount. I know the divorce has only been going on for what, six months? I may be greying faster than you but I’m not senile. I haven’t forgotten your ridiculous appetite, Robert.”

And there it is again -- a slight tug of amusement behind the burger bite Tony distracts himself with, gaze turning to watch families play on the beach further down.

Steve finds himself forcing his gaze away, a flush rising up to the tips of his ears, as he stares at the bags once more; try as he might, Steve can’t pretend that his chest doesn’t swell with something warm and fond.  


*

In the small private jet, Tony sits in jeans, a t-shirt and sneakers, his ankles propped up on the chair. Once airborne, Tony tells Steve that they’re destined for Fethiye in the Mugla Province. It’s quiet, secluded enough and no one would look twice at a group of westerner’s taking time off.

“Lots of accessible space for the quinjet to land,” Tony adds. “Shouldn’t be too hard for your twin.”

Steve stares at his hands. “Even if it was, I’d always find a way to get to you.”

“You would?” Tony stares at him, tone dry, head tilted to the side. It’s Tony’s mocking face, the one that says, you’re so full of shit, you hypocrite.

Steve smiles though, gentle. He finds it hard to be offended by that statement. “I came back in time for you, didn’t I?” Tony remains quiet, but Steve sees how his throat bobs when Tony swallows. “And I’d do it again, if I have to.”

“ _You_ would say that, emotional baggage and whatnot. I highly doubt your twin would agree,” Tony deadpans, a furrow deepening

“He’s an idiot.” It comes out too bitter, too fast. “And a bit of a coward. He doesn’t know what he’s about to lose.”

Steve remembers the day he sees the global announcement of Tony Stark’s engagement to Virginia Potts. He remembers watching the coverage and leaving the rest of the team behind to coo while claiming their bet winnings. He remembers hearing Sam sounding incredulous at Natasha losing a big amount, how Sam had said, _you really screwed in this assessment, huh, Nat?_

Natasha had looked across the room, right at Steve, everything in her gaze almost apologetic. Steve remembers his stomach dropping to the core of the earth, at how something ugly had clawed under his ribcage, so sudden in its presence, so vicious in its envy. Steve remembers the visceral reaction catching him off guard, making his eyes widen like a deer in headlights, just as Natasha responds with a cool, and very pointed, _well, Pepper isn’t the only one Tony has eyes for._

Steve remembers walking away from the conversation, putting distance between himself and the team as they hound Natasha for answers.

(It hurt. Losing this chance, too.)

The sudden looming shadow and phone camera makes Steve lean back in his chair, as Tony crowds into his space just a little bit, making Steve grasp at the armrest. “Tony, what --”

“Can you just call yourself an idiot again? I didn’t think that the day would come where your sanctimonious ass would actually call yourself an idiot.”

There is humor sparkling like a billion stars in Tony’s eyes, and for a moment, Steve just stares at him, a little gobsmacked, jaw slightly hanging in surprise before he turns away, the flush crawling up to his cheeks. Tony is a little too close, and if Tony only tips forward a little more, Steve will end up with an armful of genius.

“My twin is a fool,” Steve says, a little helplessly, giving Tony exactly what he wants.

Tony steps back with flourish, taps at his phone a few times before slumping back on his chair. Steve relaxes a good minute later, watching Tony pour himself a bourbon from the tray beside him.

“Your twin is not a fool,” Tony says, snapping at the tension that is coiled tight under Steve’s skin. “I mean, I wouldn’t really stay for _me_ either, you know? I’d say he’s a smart man, knew exactly what he was doing. You’ve always been a tactician at heart, Rogers. Don’t pretend otherwise.”

“You don’t know what you’re saying, Tony…” Steve’s voice is hoarse, crushed, his lungs surrounded by metal bands even though his chest is moving, functional. Air doesn’t rush through Steve’s windpipe, when it should be, because he’s not under icy water. The words, however, dims the world around Steve’s peripheral, leaves him reeling like he’s swept away by a turbulent waters, the cold numbing him, seeping into the pores of his skin until they wrap and stiffen him at the bones.

Steve had always known that Tony had his insecurities, that despite his philanthropy and flamboyant ways, his general assholery is only a front to something more delicate.

To actually hear Tony speak of himself with complete disregard though, how even he, the great Tony Stark, despite his genius and contribution to the world doesn’t find himself worth fighting for, makes Steve swallow a mouthful of ice needles. It cuts, makes his throat raw, leaves him reeling for a moment as he goes very still in his chair, watching Tony pour himself another glass, watching bitter liquid disappear down a slender throat.

“Yeah, you made that pretty clear in Leipzig,” Tony mutters, and says nothing else for the rest of the flight.

(You did that when you signed.)  


*

  
Friday announces their begin for descent, stirring Tony awake with a slight jerk. He freezes when he lays eyes on Steve, and Steve pretends that it doesn’t break him further a little more, when Tony looks like he’s about to hyperventilate at the sight of him. At this point, Steve wishes Tony were a bit more vicious towards him. That Tony would just punch him through his teeth.

There is no mistaking the fear that is as vivid as the sun’s glare in Tony’s eyes, wide and all encompassing as Tony stares at Steve before he blinks rapidly and looks away, pallor pallid. Tony’s hand comes up to his chest, probably without him realizing as he rubs at it. Then, like a veil being pulled back, the fear that had been so visible sinks inwards, like water swirling down an unclogged drain. Tony’s face remains pale and matte, even when his gaze steadies as if he were choosing what tie to wear with his suit. An understated sigh flows past Tony’s lips, as he rises from his seat and pads towards the connecting bathroom, giving Steve his back, as if to say that he’s not afraid at all of getting stabbed in the back.

Steve sits there, his throat jagged with broken glass, listening to the sound of water flowing, listening to Tony brushing his teeth.

This is his fault.

Tony is afraid of him, even though he is stubbornly determined to no longer be.  


*

  
Steve wishes Tony would actually yell at him. That Tony wasn’t so civil.

Then again, Steve thinks that even Tony’s anger, like Tony’s forgiveness, is something he doesn’t deserve.  


*

  
They arrive a little after dinner time in a very underwhelming Fiat Linea. Steve had insisted on driving, and Tony didn’t kick up a fuss at that.

The cottage Tony has rented for the next however many days necessary, lies perched on a green plane near the woods, that from a afar, it looks old and poor. The walls are made of wood, the roof clearly tiled stones. It is the only thing there amidst the boundless stretch of spruce and sweet gum trees. The breeze that sweeps through the trees and large pool carries with it the faint scent of salt from Inclice beach, just a little under half a mile away.  The cottage is the only thing there. There are no other houses around it; this one would have looked abandoned had it not been for the illuminated porch light.

The property is so closed off from outside views that Steve can see why Tony had picked this.

It’s lovely, quite quaint, equipped with a spacious living room, an open-plan fully stocked kitchen and four bedrooms. The windows extend off the ground, providing a breathtaking and interrupted view of the natural landscape. Come morning, Steve knows that sunshine would brighten the dulcet tones of the interior. It’s not exactly the epitome of luxury. It’s deceptively warm and homey, and something about Tony flopping carelessly on the sofa, sweater tossed recklessly over the armrest, his sneakers kicked off on the rug sends a tendril of something soft, something almost vulnerable through Steve.

Tony lies there, an arm over his head, still exhausted from the trip and plethora of meetings.

Steve doesn’t know how long he stands there for, baseball cap still on his head, watching Tony breathe. Steve is never going to get over how it is such a blessing to see Tony like this, just as haphazard, just as uncaring in his unabashed mannerisms. It is also a vivid reminder of a cruelty that Steve is forced to face, because in his reality, the sun continues to rise, welcoming each new day devoid of Tony Stark’s encompassing presence, his grumpy complaints, his sarcastic commentary, his dorky, nose scrunching, laughter. Steve will never again hear Tony guffaw at something he doesn’t expect Steve to say, like Steve using words like big mood, lit, extra or on fleek. Steve will never again argue with Tony over his recklessness in missions, or his leadership challenged when Tony thinks his plan of attack or defense is better. It’s the little things, Steve realizes, that maybe he had already lost after the ‘Civil War’ but got a glimpse of again when Tony returned to the compound, handing Steve his polished, newly painted shield.

Steve didn’t realize how hard he grasped at those moments -- Tony’s grins, the cock of his eyebrow, the sometimes unwarranted comments, the inappropriate jokes about Steve’s ass in his uniform, the arrogance and confidence that Stark-tech certainly did things better, functioned better, how he shamelessly thinks things outside his own creation has so much room for growth, that it hurts. All the where-would-you-be-without-me.

It’s so unfair.

Tony didn’t deserve to be cold, lifeless, moulding under ground, maggots growing in his flesh, slowly being eaten away by the earth.

 _God, I miss you,_ Steve thinks, as he trembles from behind the counter, pulling his baseball cap off, scrubbing at his eyes with the sleeve of his hooded sweater, turning away before he comes apart when this is not the time and place for it. His twin will be arriving at any given point; Steve can’t afford to be a blubbering fool when there’s a bigger challenge ahead of him.

He fusses with the kitchen equipment, figures that pasta should be easiest thing to put together. There’s peeled shrimp in the fridge and an abundance of fresh herbs in the garden.

“I miss you too, you know?” Tony says and Steve nearly drops the pan of water he’s holding. Steve didn’t realize he had said things out loud. “Would _you_ have come? If I had called?”

Steve carefully sets the pan on the stove, swallowing thickly, nose wrinkling as he bites his lower lip for several seconds, trying to stop his chest from heaving as his eyes prickle with grief that he wishes would stop bubbling out so uncontrollably like this. He’s not a goddamn child, for fuck’s sake.

“ _Yes_ ,” Steve murmurs, the words coming out thick, a little raspy around the edges.

Tony’s eyes are on Steve; they remain on him for the remainder of dinner’s preparation.  


*  


They sit on stools around the kitchen island, tucking into a warm meal. Tony’s hair is still damp from his shower, his clothes earlier traded in for a pair of sweats and a different t-shirt. He is barefoot, spooning forkfuls of farfalle and shrimp into his mouth, taking sips of Pinot Grigio in between. Tony looks like he’s enjoying himself, and Steve finds himself thinking that he wouldn’t mind repeating this. All the time. Every night, if he had any say in the matter.

“Something on my face?” Tony suddenly asks, looking up from under his lashes, an eyebrow slightly quirked, one cheek a little puffed mid-chew, making Steve blink in surprise at the question.

He had been staring again.

“No, no, uh, well -- sorry.” Steve ducks his gaze, swallowing thickly, a frown between his brows, a hot, embarrassed flush dusting over his cheeks.

“Thinking inappropriate thoughts at the table, Steven? Rude.” Tony stabs a shrimp with a fork, pushing it into his mouth.

“I -- I am not!” Steve flushes darker, eyes widening. Tony just hums, the sound agreeing and disagreeing. If anything, it makes Steve’s heart drum under his ribs, nervousness flaring under his skin. All of a sudden, Steve doesn’t know what in god’s name he should do with himself. “Well, what’s a man to do, when you eat his cooking with gusto?”

“What? I’m hungry.” Tony shrugs. “I mean you’re no Michelin star chef, but hey, beggars can’t be choosers.”

“Thanks,” Steve says dryly, shaking his head and tucking back into his plate. He only looks up when he hears Tony’s fork scrape his already empty plate. “You want seconds?”

Tony pauses, something flashing across his face. It’s gone far too quickly before Steve can figure it out. Tony nods, pushing his plate towards Steve.

By the time. By the time Tony is halfway through his second serving, Steve is already on his third.

“Was I happy?” Tony asks, the question breaking the silence that had fallen between them.

“Very,” Steve takes a sip of his wine. “Blissfully domesticated. House by a lake, sports cars filled with toys. I don’t think I remember ever seeing you that happy. You told me that your daughter measured her love for you in numbers. You insisted that you were the favorite parent.”

“Oh?” Tony looks at him, head tilted, curious.

“She’d leave you voice messages while you worked on the time machine. She’d sing Bohemian Rhapsody to you every night, then end the call with an, I-love-you-three-thousand.” Steve lost count on the nights he’d seen Tony stand away from everyone, taking the video call, grinning at Morgan’s projection, the smile on his lips as wide as the sky. “I don’t know what that means, but yes, you were so happy.”

All of Steve’s appetite leaves him like a candle being snuffed out. He licks his lips and stares at a piece of spinach on his plate. “What about you?” Tony asks, a little distant, and to no fault of his. This Tony, Steve reminds himself, still doesn’t know his capability of being happy.

“What about me?” Steve forces the rest of his meal down, the entire thing tasting like ash all of a sudden.

Tony pours himself and Steve more wine. “I mean, I recall you saying that the man who went under the ice wanted family and bla-bla-bla. The man who came out, not really. So were _you_ happy?”

“I could have been, maybe,” Steve’s smile is morose, a little bitter around the edges. He doesn’t have the courage to look up from his plate, not wanting to see pity, or hate, or bitterness in Ton’s eyes. “But as always, I was late to things. Too slow. But hey, I wouldn’t be me if I didn’t miss opportunities, right?”

Tony’s phone suddenly vibrates, Pepper’s name flashing on the screen. Tony takes the call, doesn’t bother moving away from the island. Until Tony stops and his gaze is suddenly on Steve, wide, like he’s scrambling for an excuse. Steve realizes then, as his hearing focuses, that Pepper has no clue that Tony’s return will be delayed.

“I meant to tell you, but you know,” Tony tries to downplay it, before he blinks. Steve swears it’s like watching a light bulb switch on in Tony’s skull. “You know what, who am I kidding. All right, here goes: I’m totally taking a break because I’m sleeping with my bodyguard. Robert’s dick is a thing of wonder, Pep. I just need two to three days and I’ll be good as new and recharged. Is three days so, _so_ bad?”

Steve _stares_ in shock, a little unimpressed and overly embarrassed by the way Tony is handling this. It must have shown all over his face because Tony wraps up the call and openly scowls, lips pressing to a thin line.

“Oh get off your high horse, Rogers. It’s a far more believable story than Captain Rogers coming back for me. This way, I can remain undisturbed for the next thirty-six hours. Put away the judgement, would you?”

“I didn’t say anything…”

“Yeah well, you never do, do you?”

There’s something dark in the statement, something that can spark a fight if Steve bites the bait. He doesn’t want to fight. He doesn’t want to argue. Steve sighs, shaking his head. “Tony…”

“I’m sorry, okay?” Tony swallows, shaking in his seat, hands jittery as he brings them both up to his face. “I’m sorry, I don’t exactly know how to handle any of this. How to handle you knowing things about the future, about myself, you saying that Pepper and I were happy, when Pepper and I aren’t even -- I mean, we’re not. Not. And then there’s you coming back here, you not being you, and this -- whatever the fuck this is. They don’t make manuals for this, all right? I don’t want to fight. I didn’t want to fight before either. We all know how _that_ turned out, hmm?”

“I’m sorry.” Steve says, shrugging helplessly. He doesn’t know what else to say. He only knows that he can’t leave, won’t leave, until this mess with the Mad Titan is over, until he makes sure that Tony doesn’t die. “I’m so, _so_ , sorry, Tony…” 

“Yeah. Me too…” Tony pushes away from the island, stomping his way out towards the front porch.  


*

  
Morning comes with sparrows and blue birds chirping by the kitchen window, beaks tapping at the class and warm sunshine streaming into the house from behind thick white clouds. Steve is making pancakes when Tony ambles down the stairs, yawning and hair a hot mess. If anything, he looks more exhausted than the night before. Steve had spent the whole night listening to Tony toss and turn in the next room, his body only going still when dawn starts to paint the horizon.

Steve already has a fresh cup of coffee on the counter before Tony flops down heavily on a stool, groaning and rubbing at his temple.

“Your twin isn’t answering. Texted him and said if he’s not here by Friday, I’m fucking off,” Tony yawns, picking up his coffee mug and taking a slow sip once the yawn subsides.

“He’ll be here,” Steve says, confident.

It must have come out strongly because Tony doesn’t argue back.  


*  
  
Steve’s twin doesn’t show up that day.

Or the next.

In an odd way, Steve is a little grateful for the delay, because he and Tony spend the morning lying under the sun by the pool, reading and quiet afternoons drinking coffee and playing scrabble, monopoly and chess-- Tony finds the boardgames t in one of the shelves, rattling its contents at Steve with a bit of a wry smile, as open as an invitation can get, given everything that has happened. They play a few rounds, nursing iced tea working their way through the snacks and fruit in the kitchen.

It’s a little uncomfortable, but sometimes, Tony would forget that he’s supposed to be angry, that he’s hurt and bitter. Sometimes, in moments that would span in no longer than three heartbeats, Tony would lean into Steve, gravitate into his space, and on a good day, their elbows would brush.

Sometimes, Tony would flinch so hard when he is caught off guard -- it  happens when Steve appears in his peripheral vision, or when Steve suddenly moves, when Steve reaches forward for something that’s near Tony or sometimes, when Steve calls his name. But then the unthinkable happens one breezy afternoon, when Tony grabs Steve by the forearm, holding him in place, a shattered mug between them, coffee seeping into the floorboards. Tony’s fingers tremble, shaking apart the delicate pieces of Steve barely held-together heart. He didn’t mean to startle Tony, had only meant to give him a mug of coffee because the afternoon is a little chilly, and he had seen Tony rub his arms like he’s cold.

“You’re going to be here for a while. I’m tired of being afraid of you,” Tony mumbles. It’s brutally honest, and heartbreakingly terrified. “Sit down, don’t move. I’m fine.”

So Steve does, hesitantly pressing his hand over the shaking fingers clinging onto his forearm until they eventually stop.

 

*

 

It’s pitch black dark, a little before two in the morning when Steve hears a faint click from downstairs.

He is on his feet, slipping into Tony’s room and shaking him awake, as gently as he can, clamping a hand over Tony’s mouth, smothering the terrified noise that would have escaped Tony’s lips that would have alerted either the friendly or not so friendly intruder downstairs. They are both eerily still in the dark, Steve pressing a finger to his lips before pointing downstairs. He leans over, pressing lips close enough to brush against the shell of Tony’s ear.

“Someone’s downstairs, I don’t know if it’s them.”

Tony is up, watch morphing to a gauntlet over his hand before he carefully pads towards the ajar door, Steve close, within arm’s reach. If they’re not friendly, if the reason for his twin’s delay is because someone’s been tailing him, then putting himself between the attacker and Tony is an easy enough maneuver.

When they reach the bottom of the landing, the lamp stand by the sofa switches on and right there, in the middle of the living room, is Natasha.

Steve is hit with a sweeping wave of nostalgia at the sight of Natasha’s hair stripped of color, her lighter eyebrows, and the green of her suit. She has her gun out and drawn the moment light floods the living room, pointing it right at Steve, eyes wide as Steve is forced back against the wall at the bottom of the landing, Tony holding both hands up, the warm length of Tony’s back pressing defensively against Steve’s chest. Steve is reminded yet again, of his days being an asthmatic, because Natasha is alive, whole, fine, not stranded in some alien planet, not an empty coffin under the ground, not just a name etched on stone.

“Move, Tony,” Natasha warns, the safety of the gun clicking.

“Put the gun down,” Tony counters, keeping his hand up.

“I’m not asking again,” Natasha says, not budging from her position.

“Goddamnit, put it down!” Tony snaps.

“Tony?” 

From the kitchen door, Steve’s twin appears, long blonde hair pushed back, edges fanning out from behind his ears and the nape of his neck, his beard thick, a lot thicker than Steve’s current, darker one. Looking at his twin, Steve almost flinches at the sight of the blacked out silver star on his chest, the slight wear and tear at the uniform he remembers refusing to put away because no one can make anything better than Tony. He remembers nights when he tries to mend the uniform, keep it together, holding onto the last thing he’s been physically given, when all he had left of Tony was the betrayed gaze looking up hauntingly at him, blood trickling down Tony’s nose, lips and temple, breath misting in the chill of the Siberian bunker.

Steve looks towards the tear on his twin’s knee, where he knows it had come apart a little during an escape attempt from a underground bunker in Basra. The lumpy stitches, where Steve had to use thread he had painstakingly pried off a flak jacket one sticky, hot scorching summer night in Jordan, the salt of the Dead Sea filling his nose and clinging to his skin.

They’re staring at each other, his twin’s eyes segueing from confusion to suspicion, before darkening over completely as his fists remain deceptively lax by his thighs. Steve knows better, though. His twin is gearing up for a fight, ready to punch his way through the sight of his mirror image if it means keeping Tony safe.

“Tell her to put the gun down, Cap,” Tony repeats, his voice cracking. Steve’s twin does not comply; no one listens. “You wanna know why I called you here? It’s because of him.”

Tony pulls his gauntlet off, letting it retract back to its watch form. Natasha’s gun remains pointed at Steve, her eyes unmoving from their target, even though she tilts her head a little bit in towards Steve’s twin. Steve knows that it’s a silent question, waiting for a decision. Steve can’t help but shudder, can’t stop his sharp inhale, the reminder of a loss hitting him hard again. The last time he’d seen Natasha, they were standing on the platform, suiting up for the quantum realm, excitement brimming in her eyes when all they did for the past five years were brim with tears.

God, he misses her, too. Wishes that there had been another way. Looking at her now, if anything, makes Steve determined to not screw their future up.

The kitchen door carefully opens, revealing Sam who stiffens, carefully pulling his eye-gear off, as he stares at the sight before him. Behind him, Wanda steps in, and freezes by the door frame.

“Steve?” Sam sounds incredulous, staring at two Steves, blinking as if to dispel the illusion.

“What is this?” Wanda is wide eyed, too, looking between Steve and his double.

“I asked to meet you and bring the entire band?” Tony scoffs, and Steve can feel the shudder go through the length of Tony’s spine. “Is Barnes here too?”

None of them answer, all three remaining tight lipped.

“He’s not here,” Steve answers. “He’s in cryostasis in Wakanda. It was his choice.” Sam pulls out a pair of Glock 19’s, aims them right at Steve, uncaring that Tony is standing in the way. Something ticks in Steve’s brain, the monster that normally remains quiet unless he was punching Hydra scum gnashing its teeth, roaring in his ears. Steve straightens, towers over the entirety of the room as he places a hand on Tony’s hip, carefully pulling him out of the way, switching positions so he’s the one standing between the weapons, because Steve knows it takes a slip of a finger to pull that trigger, and no one, not one of them, should ever point a gun at Tony. Tension coils under his skin as he balls his hands to fists once before he releases them, sucking in a slow, measured breath through his nose, a deceptively calm hand coming to rest on the bannister. He looks at his twin,  eyes himself up and down like he’s the biggest idiot alive, tipping his chin towards the not-so-obvious mended fabric by the left knee. “You spent four hours taking apart a flak jacket from a Jordanian special op. You spent another hour mending that tear on your pants. You fell from a watch tower, didn’t land right in Basra, eight weeks ago. It was dark. You refuse to let go of the uniform, even though Natasha has offered to make you a new one, hs told you that she knows the guy who supplies Desert Storm their gear. But you don’t want a new one do you?”

Steve takes a step forward, and then another, until he’s standing chest to chest in front of his twin. He sees worry glimmering like a blue flames in the depths of his eyes. His twin’s hands are in tight white knuckled fists, the room suddenly glowing with a flash of red, a warning, as Wanda prepares for defense maneuvers if necessary. Looking at himself now, Steve wants to grab him by the shoulder and shake him, yell at him, tell himself to stop being stubborn, to stop running, to just come home already because there’s a bigger threat than their little, goddamn pissing contest.

That it’s not worth it. The loss is not fucking worth it.

“You can’t let this go,” Steve’s voice drops and then he leans a little closer, so that the next few words are only for his Steve’s ears. “Because it’s the only thing you have left to remind you of Tony.”

His twin doesn’t move. He doesn’t breathe. Steve pulls back and watches the emotions flicker across the wide blue eyes, watches his twin keep his breath suspended, as a thousand thought

“Back off, buddy, I’m serious,” Sam warns.

Steve watches as his twin lifts up a hand, motioning for Sam and Natasha to stand down. “All right. Let’s talk…”  


*

Steve doesn’t bother to pull his punches when he lays the truth like a dealer dealing cards. He fans out the facts before them on the table while Friday assists them by projecting out reports Steve had previously written for them to read.

By the time Steve is done narrating everything, Tony has his head cradled in his hands and the their four house guests remain as still as statues on the lushh, comfortable sofas, daybreak already visible, splashing lavender-orange over their shadowed faces.

Steve reaches beside him to switch the lamp off with a sigh. Getting them to believe anything was always going to be a long shot. Steve isn’t counting on Sam, Wanda or Natasha; he is hoping that his twin would at least take a leap of a faith. It is wishful thinking, Steve acknowledges, because even he’d have a tough time buying something like _this_ if it gets suddenly dumped over his head like a bucket of ice water.

“So what?” Sam asks, breaking the silence. “You call us all the way over here just to sell us a story about some alien coming back to commit genocide and your plan is what? Find more heroes? Across the globe? Get a head start on war-prep for a war that may not even happen in this reality? Am I the only one thinking this is bullshit?”

“I can’t think of a better idea,” Steve sighs, pushing himself off the sofa, padding for the kitchen and turning on the coffee maker. “There’s no sugar coating something like this, Sam.”

“But you’re here, you’ve already altered the future. Our timeline already doesn’t match with yours, if these reports are true. Hell,  Stark, aren’t you supposed to be engaged by now? You can’t be buying this. Is Vision buying this? Is Rhodey?” Sam sounds incredulous, his words already dripping with unamused sarcasm.

“No one knows,” Tony admits, and that earns him a pointed look from Sam.

“And your first action is, to what, tell us? Really?” Sam _scoffs_ and Steve watches as Tony flushes and gets on his feet, shaking his head.

“I don’t recall asking you to come along, Wilson. I called Cap, not you, not Romanov, not Wanda. And Rhodey doesn’t know, because he’s knee deep in therapy for his, you know, broken back. You remember that?” Tony’s words hits where it hurts, making Sam flinch visibly. “You know what, I don’t know what I was expecting when I agreed to this. I don’t know what I was hoping for but you,” Tony points at Steve’s double with an accusatory finger. “I needed you. To stave off something worse, to stand united in front of a hundred and twenty countries, now, a hundred and thirty by the way, and still growing. I needed you to keep this team together and you had the gall to say that the Avengers were mine? Did you mean the cripple and the two year old android, was that the team you were referring to?”

Alarm flares in Steve’s veins when he sees Tony grasping at his left wrist, watching as he sucks in deep breaths through his nostrils, hands in fists. His twin must have noticed it too because he stands, worry flashing in his gaze. Steve thinks he should stop Tony, he should tell him to sit down, calm down, stop getting so angry.

But this, Steve recognizes, is the breaking point of Tony’s patience.

This is a five-course bitter tasting rage that will be incredibly satisfying. It is something that needs to happen, that happened two years too late, too slow, missed opportunities, further worsened by the ashy remains of the world and the loss of people that maybe, just maybe, wouldn’t have been lost if they had been better prepared.

Natasha is on her feet, too, standing by Tony, asking him to sit down, calm down, but Tony pushes past her, stalks all the way up until he’s chest to chest with Steve’s twin, vibrating with anger, with hate, with betrayal that still burns as bright as the sun.

“I needed you. As in past tense. It’s too late, buddy. The Avengers need new blood, not a bunch of tired, old mills -- would you look at that? I don’t need you, after all. I’ve got a better, more useful, with more information, able to see the bigger picture version of yourself. Whether he’s real, or not, what else have I got to lose, huh? If he’s lying, well that won’t be anything new. So no, I’ve got nothing. No team, no plan, no options, zero, zip, nada. No trust. _Liar.”_

The ground drops out from under Steve’s feet, as he gets slammed by the past in the present, watches as Tony pulls out the phone from his pocket, flips it open and sneers as he snaps it in half, shoving the broken pieces right at his twin’s chest. Steve watches himself cradle the hot mess, the broken pieces of their relationship, the only thing left connecting the both of them in pieces of wire and plastic between gloved hands that tremble.

(The future is changing. This had to be it.)

“You keep that, you get out of here. You hide. Before one of you gets caught. This was a stupid mistake,” Tony’s voice is shaking, his eyes mirrored with bitter goodbye before he side steps and turns for the back door, putting distance between himself and the rest of the team.

Steve’s twin tries to follow, but Steve’s hand snaps up, clamping firmly on his forearm.

“Don’t.” It’s a warning, his fingers tightening, bruising, when the arm in his grip tries to jerk free. “Just don’t.”

Natasha stalks past them, following Tony out into the back garden.

Steve doesn’t stop her.

“You’re not going to believe a word I say, but you’ll believe her.” Steve tips his chin at Wanda. Wanda, who looks surprised, because her powers aren’t meant to be used on teammates, not unless they’re in training or in a controlled environment. Not since the disaster in Johannesburg. “See for yourself.”

  
*

 

Bright, red tendrils fill the room, as Steve closes his eyes and lets Wanda invade his mind, allows her to see what she wants to see, sift through the grief, the losses, the bloodshed, Steve’s world turning to ash, his family falling to pieces, Tony’s heart finally going dark in the middle of a smoking battlefield.

Wanda weeps when she retracts from Steve’s mind, sobs shakily when she confirms the truth.

Steve can only look at her apologetically.

Then, without warning, Steve gives in to the urge and acts out on his frustration, his anger at his past self, his mistakes, his regrets. At the fact that he’s known better, somewhere deep down, but chose not to act upon it. Because no matter how anyone looked at it, there was always a better way.

He punches his twin in the middle of his face, bone yielding under Steve’s fist.

Steve thinks it’s the most satisfying thing he’s done in a long, long while.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I said 3 chapters. But after some revision, three chapters seemed unrealistic. 5 chapters may be a safer number. Maybe.
> 
> In one of the interviews post CW, it was mentioned than in the years gap, Cap was fighting ISIS. Hence all the regional references or why a good portion of the stuff here happens in the middles east/mediterranean/Arab world. Likely will continue to do so especially if I ever decide to drag in Wakanda. Still on the fence about that.
> 
> I also don’t mean to make anyone come across hateful. Then again suspicion is running high all around so...
> 
> If you've reached this far in my word vomit, thank you for reading! And giving this a chance! 
> 
> Also, all possible tags added. I can't think of anymore. Feel free to suggest and hit me up at at tumblr (pinkcatharsis) or Discord (pandashi#7565) :D


	4. 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Self beta'd. Will always edit/fix as I reread/revisit.
> 
> **Avengers: Endgame spoilers ahead. If you have not seen the movie, this is your final warning. Mind the tags.**

It’s odd, how in the flash of white hot anger that flares from within, everything that is truly hideous that Steve keeps tucked under his rib-cage would be the one thing that would protect him from the pain. How in that very moment, as he sits there with the bag of peas his double had tossed in his direction, pressed around his swollen nose and upper lip, something cutthroat and aggressive gnarls at the softest parts of him, baring fangs behind the prison of his rib cage. It bangs left and right, loses its mind, thumping razor sharp claws in a ferocious sync with Steve’s heartbeat. It’s uncontrolled, rises as fast as the oncoming high tide, unmeasured in its barbarity; Steve can do nothing but surrender to it, let it wash over him like a ravenous storm, eyes closed because this feeling, this irrationale, would pass too.

(It has to.)

Under the shade of what must have been a lush, fruit bearing apricot tree, Steve remains shoulder hunched by the reality of what is happening. Seated and separate from the others on an old stone bench, he watches the cottage from afar, spotting his twin looking out the window from the kitchen, where there is a clear view of the pool deck. The team had separated earlier, Sam opting to head back to quinjet, keep an eye on it, just in case. Wanda had lingered, shaken from what she’d seen of their future, cheeks still bare of any color. He had caught sight of Natasha somewhere by the pool deck, seated on a sun bed beside Tony, their knees brushing as she holds onto his left hand. Tony remains still, doesn’t push her away. 

That, at least, Steve is glad for.

With the team dispersed, Steve is left to his own thoughts, an onslaught of what-ifs.

What if his twin is telling the truth? What if there are alien warships heading for earth as they speak? What if, all these years, what Tony had been talking about, the need for having a suit of armor around the world, had been exactly what they need? That even if Steve thinks that Tony is earth’s best defender, it’s not enough? What if, going their separate ways had not been the way to go? What if he should have stayed, compromised _together_ , plan their feet deep in the ground, tell the world no, you move -- together?

The bag of peas is set aside, Steve’s face falling into his palms as he exhales slowly.

It’s not the first time he’s allowed himself to ask these questions, to ask these what-ifs. He’s lost count how many times he’s jolted himself awake from sleep, staring at his hands, expecting to see pieces of metal and flesh between his fingers, Tony under him, staring up at him, eyes dark, face frozen in shock. It’s a recurring dream -- sometimes Tony would drown in his own blood, lungs collapsing, filling with fluid as Steve stares down at him helplessly, pieces of the arc reactor in his hand, pieces of Tony’s flesh stuck under his nails. Sometimes, Steve will cry, trying to pry the shield out of the armor, bone and flesh, listening to it squelch and crack as he pries it free out of Tony’s chest, sobbing in an empty bunker as Tony stares up at him with trust burning away to ash, lost in the harsh winter winds outside. And the worst one, the one that would leave Steve awake and avoid sleep for days, is the one where Tony looks at him like he forgives him, understanding in his eyes, a slack, choking smile on crimson stained lips.

That one, the forgiveness, always, always leaves Steve hollow, tears in his eyes and a scream wanting to tear past his throat as guilt dissolves him from the inside like rancid acid.

(He doesn’t deserve forgiveness -- not from Tony.)

He’s lost count how many times he’s laid wide awake at night, burner phone beside him on the pillow, counting cracks on the ceiling, thinks about just calling Tony himself, tell him he is sorry, because even he can admit that the letter he had written in haste had been a poor excuse of an apology. He’s lost count how many times he’s tried to stop the tears from trickling down the corners of his eyes, regret coursing through his veins like a disease, flushing him with feverish heat, making his joints ache that if he closes his eyes, he can pretend that he’s not part of a screwed up a future, that he’s back in the late twenties, weighed down by ratty blankets, cold in his bones, as scarlet fever tries -- not for the first time -- to claim his life. He’s lost count how many times he’s stared at the news, watching Tony deliver speeches, interviews, anything and everything, because the sad, _sad,_ pathetic truth is, Steve misses Tony.

Steve tells himself that he doesn’t have a right to miss Tony, doesn’t have the right to want anything when it comes to Tony. Not after what he’s done, his choice.

Sitting here, now, watching his twin look at Tony’s figure by the pool deck with the softest look on his face -- unguarded, vulnerable -- it sends a streak of something hot through Steve, something that makes him scrunch his eyes shut, tearing his gaze away from the man that he wishes he could be, will apparently be. His twin’s liberty in being so open with his emotions is a thing worthy of envy because that, in Steve’s book, was never a possibility. It is something he doesn’t dare allow himself to give in to because Tony isn’t his to want freely, never was, never will.

He doesn’t know what to do.

Steve doesn’t know what to believe, anymore.

The weight of the shattered phone in his pocket is as heavy as a ship’s anchor. It tugs Steve downwards, pressing him onto the bench. It’s as heavy as the lack of strength he’s had from years ago, from not being able to just tell the truth, for being tight lipped about it, for being scared, for wanting to find the right time, the right words— a thousand excuses. Now, sitting here surrounded by what looks like a nice life, seeing the evidence of what he could be, the comfort of seeing himself in sweats and a t-shirt, how his hands brush over Tony’s skin, how he looks unafraid to stand between a threat and the person who symbolizes the future in ways Steve didn’t think would be possible, it’s a thing of envy.

And Tony— god, Tony does not shy away from it.

Steve wishes, like on countless nights after Siberia, that if he could relive everything from months ago, he’d try his hardest to summon more strength. Because the truth is, he not only failed himself, but he failed Tony. The entire team, as well. They may be running and hiding in the shadows, perhaps doing the good work, perhaps helping people, unearthing terrorists that the world has struggled with for years. But this isn’t a future. Steve knows that they can grow old and weary until injuries and time catch up on them, and the world will never be fully cleansed of threats and people with agendas. He knows that now, maybe, they’ve got fire in their veins to do the right thing. Eventually, the need to put down roots wins, the fatigue catches up, priorities and desire suddenly more tempting.

They can’t out win human nature.

Which is why when Clint  made his choice to turn himself in, Steve embraced him and made him promise to never leave his family again.

When Scott chose his daughter’s future, Steve wished him well and made him swear to not do anything foolish. _Not like me, okay, Scott?_

Scott had looked at him like a hero, respect glowing as bright as Orion’s belt in his eyes — Steve didn’t think he deserved that, too.

 _If_ the amount of regret Steve has coursing in his veins symbolizes what Tony truly means to him, then there’s no use pretending. Love should never be possession, should never be favors to be relied on, should never be a convenience.

Steve looks at his twin from across the garden once more and swallows thickly.

He didn’t treat Tony right.

He should have.

If there is one person in the world who has no right to not only Tony’s forgiveness, but the right to love him as well, it’s Steve.

He deserves nothing from Tony.

Not even the violence of Tony’s anger.

*

The sun is higher up in the sky when Wanda pads across the grass, boots crunching softly, leaving bent blades of green in their wake. She picks up the forgotten bag of thawed peas, holds it in her hands, jeweled rings glinting like diamonds under the sun. She is quiet for a moment before her hand reaches over for Steve’s, holding it firmly.

“I’ve never seen anyone love anyone so deeply,” she says, something wistful in her tone, soft, like the brush of the cool salty-sweet breeze that caresses her crown of red hair. “I didn’t think -- I didn’t know -- do you, Steve?”

“Do I what?” Steve asks, voice thick, not wanting to assume he knows what Wanda is asking.

“Love Tony,” Wanda finishes, her hand warm on Steve’s palm, steady.

“It doesn’t matter,” Steve responds, refusing to put to words the storm of desperation, guilt, envy and a thousand other things swirling under his skin.

Not at this point, anyway.

“Do you regret your decision?” There’s a slight tremble in her voice; Steve knows she’s scared. “Do you regret coming for us? Barnes? Everything in Germany?”

“No,” Steve is firm, resolute in his response, fingers wrapping around Wanda’s fingers. “The problem, Wanda, was not that the team broke apart, not that I broke all of you out, created a different side -- I’d do all that again, without hesitation. I’d come back for any of you. It wasn’t even about Bucky, saving him.” Steve looks up at the sky. The words that follow is harsh truth. It trembles past his lips, bitter and choked. “The problem was that I lied.”

The words hang there between them, like a dead man swinging from a noose.

It doesn’t make Steve feel any better, admitting it out loud. Admitting it to someone else.

“I used to think Tony had everything, you know? Used to think, even after Ultron, that a big, powerful, rich guy like him had everything perfect in his life. And then he was a hero, too. That his life is a thing to be envied. That people _must_ love him.” Wanda shrugs a little, the gesture meek. “It wasn’t until I was close to him, when I became part of the team, that I realized that Tony is alone. He always is, Steve. Loud, impressionable, confident he may be. But he doesn’t have much. People tend not to like him because of how he appears strong. I was angry and bitter, unwilling to forgive his name for something I learned later, wasn’t his doing. That the family he trusted wanted to take what was rightfully his; the person he trusted with his life since his younger days turned out to be the one behind it all. I can’t imagine what that must have been like. Family betraying you…”

Steve swallows past his dry as sandpaper throat, staring at the tree tops rustling in the gentle breeze from across the way. He’s known too, had read the briefing in SHIELD’s report about the events that transpired and brought about the birth of Iron man.

“It’s hard to hate a man who has accountability at the top of his list. Now, years later, I realize how unfair it was to hate him, when Sokovia wasn’t his fault. Ultron, too, wasn’t Tony’s fault. Vision and I -- we’ve come to an understanding that the stone must have triggered something. Johannesburg? That’s me, Steve…” Wanda reaches up and brushes tears from her eyes. “I made all of you see things you didn’t want to see; Tony and Bruce saw their fears, and look what happened? Was I blamed for that? No. But Tony took the brunt of it. Even with Sokovia.”

“It wasn’t your fault, Wanda…” Steve says, the words weak, not a lot of conviction behind it.

“No? I did the one thing my people would never, ever do, given our history. I willingly joined Hydra when I am born and raised a jew, and -- it’s not right, my choices. I can hope that I’ll make up for it with each life I save, but these choices, these decisions, I have to live with them even if I am trying to take control of my own narrative now. Mama, Papa, if they can see me now, they’d be disappointed, you know?” Wanda sniffs softly, dabbing at her eyes with the sleeve of her jacket. “Oh god, Steve -- what I saw -- everybody -- there’s so much death, so many people gone, and I’m saying this because maybe what Rogers says is right. Our politics, our differences in opinions,  it’s not going to matter. Not from what I saw...”

“You think we should help them.” Steve turns to look at her face, watches the drying tear tracks and the start of what looks like hesitant determination taking hold of her features.

“I think _I_ would like to, yes,” Wanda swallows. “Is that strange? Wanting to prevent a higher form of war? Genocide? Given who I am, what I have done, my choices…”

Steve shakes his head, taking Wanda’s hand in both of his and giving it a tight, reassuring squeeze. “I think it’s good to be aware of our past mistakes, what we perceive as wrong choices now that we have better understanding of things. I don’t think it’s wrong that you want to help. But whether or not it’d redeem you, well, Wanda, I’m the last person to ask that.” Steve gives her a small, guilty smile. “I’m no better. I haven’t been.” Steve gives her a meek shrug. “Doesn’t mean I don’t want to try.”

Wanda nods slowly, understanding.

Steve didn’t realize that Wanda thought of things the way she did, didn’t realize that she carried all that guilt when it comes to her identity and history.

Then again, apparently, Steve doesn’t know much of anything, these days.

*

By the time Steve wanders back into the house, Natasha is gone and Tony is nowhere in sight.

His twin, Rogers, however, is dutifully watching a pot a simmer, wooden spoon in hand, apron tied around the waist as the pot on the stove gives off fresh, tantalizing smell of garlic, tomatoes and herbs. Steve’s knows what his twin is making without having to look at the contents of the pot. He’s made the same dish several times in the years the Avengers were together at the tower and compound. It’s something a lot of the members has asked him to make, even when he tells them that he can actually make other things, too.

(Tony had always asked for it. He’s always the first to crow out what Steve should make.)

“That’s a big pot of lasagna sauce,” Steve points out, taking a seat by the stool.

Rogers responds with a bemused chuckle, flicking a glance at Steve with a wry smile. “It’s either this or cheeseburger sloppy-joes. This takes more work and I have nothing to do.”

It’s an honest answer, even if it is so casually wrapped in nonchalance. There’s a visible tension in the set of his twin’s jaw, the way his gaze seems to look beyond the contents of the pot. Steve recognizes the look instantly. It's how he tends to look like these days, thinking of someone far beyond reach, so far away, while drowning in regret.

“How’s Tony?” Steve asks, mirroring Rogers' casual tone, even when his stomach folds inwards, his chest tightens and his heart quickens its pace in nervous anticipation.

“What do you think?” Rogers counters, not bothering to look away from the pot.

“Right, stupid question, huh?” Steve sighs, scrubbing a hand down over his slightly swollen face.

“How’s your face?” Rogers asks, and actually turns to meet Steve’s are-you-kidding expression. “I’m not sorry. I’ve been wanting to do that for a long, long time. Punching myself in my goddamn face -- didn’t think it’d ever be possible, but here we are.”

“It’s not exactly your face, you know, technically,” Steve adds, a deplorable attempt to keep the tone of their conversation light, because Steve knows this is going to be a conversation that they both need to have, one that he isn’t exactly ready for. Because how does one prepare for a conversation with their future self, when that future, however victorious, came with a lot of sacrifices?

“Really? We’re going to get into _that_ technicality? Wouldn’t you want to punch me in the face too?” Rogers challenges, turning around this time, wooden spoon set aside, arms crossing not in defense, but the clear daring challenge he is posing.

“Why would I?” Steve counters, refusing to rise to the bait, knowing that he is being goaded into biting at something he really wants to tear apart with his teeth. Steve refuses to give his twin that satisfaction.

A heavy pause passes between them, before Rogers huffs a dry laugh, and brings a hand up to his face, covering his mouth as he stares at Steve before shaking his head, slight befuddlement glazing over blue irises. “Good god, I was right. I am a fucking idiot,” Rogers says, incredulous, even breathless.

Steve isn’t sure why that statement makes him bristle. But he does know one thing; in the shadowy embrace of dawn that morning, at the sight of his twin, the sight of Tony standing tall and brave, between bullets ready to be fired, the sight of Tony defending another version of him when all this time, the bridge between himself and Tony still remains broken, Steve had swallowed a fire-seed. He had swallowed that large seed dryly, no cool water to calm the heat as it coursed down his throat and settled into his stomach, nothing to quell the growth of fire as the day progressed, as Tony all but cast aside the one thing that may have been a means to rebuild the bridge between them, all in favor for this older, more broken, so unlike him, goddamn impostor of a man-twin. This man who already had his future, had his turn, had screwed it up, robbing Steve of his own chances to make things right in a reality that his rightfully his.

The flame in Steve’s belly comes out fire-hot, as all consuming as a solar flare, the rage compressed into four little words, an inferno that turns everything Rogers is into ash, the horrid, fanged monster of a dragon roaring in Steve’s chest, because _how dare he_?

“You don’t belong here,” Steve says, firm, vengeful, almost hateful, peppered with bitterness.

Rogers goes still, eyes turning away as he stares out at the surface of the pool, glimmering like a shower of sapphires under the sunny sky.

“You’re right,” Rogers agrees, shoulder sagging, for a span of a few heartbeats, looking so utterly alone in whatever nightmare of a world he had come from. A world where Tony is dead. “I don’t.”

Steve can’t imagine a world without earth’s strongest Avenger. He can’t even comprehend a world without Tony Stark’s intelligence, brilliance -- the ultimate definition of a futurist.

(It’s not a future without Tony; it’s not something Steve thinks he’ll be interested in.)

But then Rogers sucks in a deep, long, breath. And the defeat that had pushed him down to the earth, the weight of what must have been nothing more than cowardice, slides off him. It is cowardice, isn’t it? Keeping one’s mouth shut from speaking truths, writing words and sending over a silent phone when there’s oceans and continents between himself and Tony. It’s an act of cowardice too when one does everything and anything to save the physical self, even if the price for that is emotional death. Steve had chosen to walk away from Siberia, had given up his shield, abandoned the man he does care for, will never admit he loves because Tony was never his to love from the beginning. Steve had allowed himself to become a monster, allowed himself to live his darker-self, with the white star on his chest blacked out, his face hidden, sleeping in sandy cots and dusty, run down rooms painted in dark shadows.

Steve allowed all that.

He had chosen to be all that.

So did Rogers.

Except Rogers knows the weight of losing everything. Rogers knows what being hopeless is really like. When he looks up, there's fire blazing just as hot in his eyes, determination straightening his spine, and for a moment, Steve thinks his twin may actually be bigger, taller, stronger than him.

(Loss and love does that to a man; it makes him foolishly brave.)

“But I’m not going to stand idle and watch him die. Not again, _never_ again.” Rogers says, words coming out of the ashes he’s been buried under, a determined promise spreading its wings as far as the sky can stretch, a fiery phoenix to Steve’s dragon, both of them fire, both of them burning everything that stands in their way. “So you either help me or stay the fuck out of my way.”

*

The lasagna dish is piping hot as Rogers sets it in the middle of a table that’s set for three. Steve stares at the spare empty seat that he knows, with every fiber of his being, Tony is not going to occupy. Not with his sorry presence in the cottage.

He asks the stupid question anyway.

“He’s not gonna come down while I’m here, is he?”

Outside, the sky is a little darker, now overcast by thicker clouds that may bring rain in the days to come.

Rogers cuts into the lasagna, serving Tony’s plate first before he sets it aside. He then proceeds to serve Steve and himself a generous portion.

“You know he won’t,” Rogers says.

There’s something achingly sad in the way he says those words.

  
*

  
Sunset comes and goes.

It is dark when Steve thinks that it is pointless to linger any longer. Tony is not going to talk to him.

He pulls his gear back on from where he had set them on one of the comfortable, dusky sofas. Rogers doesn’t stop him, watching him dress in a uniform that wraps around his body like a security blanket.  

“Did he ever forgive you? Your Tony?” Steve asks, swallowing thickly as soon as the words tumble out of his lips.

Rogers is looking at the contents of the mug in his hands, fiddling with the tea bag label hanging over the rim. “In a way. Tony was always kind, always forgiving, even to those who didn’t deserve it. You have to understand that the circumstances surrounding his decision to forgive is very different. The Tony from my world let go of everything because he found happiness. True, genuine, happiness…”

Steve tries to picture it, tries to see how Tony would look like surrounded by love and warmth, waking up with a slack smile around the corners of parted lips, where his eyes would sparkle like embers amidst pools of molten brown, bright and brimming with ideas for tomorrow, goals for the future, looking forward to another day.

Steve tries.

But all he can see is Tony’s wide eyes, the blood streaking down his face, nose and lips, the look of frozen fear in his eyes, the way his lips trembled, waiting for the final blow to come down over his chest.

Steve almost breaks something.

Instead, he sucks in a shaky breath, palms forcibly lying lax on the sofa’s backrest. No clenching of fingers. No tension. No firm grip.

Steve’s broken enough things to last him a lifetime. He’s done enough damage as it is.

The request is soft when it comes out, with little to no expectation of being honored. “Tell me about him, your Tony…”

Rogers does.

*

For a moment, as Steve sits there listening to Rogers talk about Tony’s happy life, he can almost see it. How Tony would really look like happy.

It’s beautiful.

  
*

“Do you think he’ll forgive me?” Steve keeps his gaze focused on the palms of his gloved hands, his eyes burning like the Dead Sea, bitterness coating the back of his throat like cancer.

It’s pitch black outside, the only light illuminating the estate is the small corner light in the kitchen. Steve didn’t mean to stay this long, had intended to depart, give Tony more space. Yet again, he had selfishly robbed that from Tony as well, opting to sit there for longer than necessary, absorbing stories of a Tony in the future that he's never going to meet, never going to have.

“Maybe one day…” Rogers says, uncruel, gentle, understanding.

It almost -- _almost --_ makes Steve cry.

*

It’s a little close to midnight when Steve steps out of the cottage, boots crunching over gravel as he heads for the gate. Behind him, Rogers’ footsteps is quieter. Before Steve pushes the gate open, Rogers’ hand stops him by clamping on his shoulder.

“Here,” Rogers says, handing over a cell phone. “Use this.”

For a moment, Steve stares at the Starkphone, thin, sleek, lined with blue LED light that glows softly even when the screen is locked. It’s been too long since he’s held one, the phone suddenly small, and fragile in his palm.

“Are you sure?” Steve asks, unsure as he looks up to meet his twin’s gaze, feeling too young all of a sudden, too inexperienced.

“You’ll need it. Make allies, build an army,” Rogers wraps Steve’s hands in both of his, warm, firm, a tremble going through them. “We’ll need everyone.”

It’s only then that Steve sees it, how terrified Rogers truly is. How scared he is. It’s a brief glimpse, the moment lasting like a falling star streaking across the night sky. It’s gone the moment Rogers releases his hold on Steve’s hand, taking a step back.

From across the way, Steve catches sight of the drapes rustling.

It’s in that moment, that Steve realizes, that he didn’t need too much convincing to help Tony, that he would have taken any leap of faith, no matter what the consequence, simply because Tony had called him. Tony had believed his twin from the future. Because even though Tony’s rage is fiery as the sun, he too had taken a leap of faith by arranging this meeting in the first place.

(It’s always been the small gestures with Tony.)

He doesn’t answer Rogers, doesn’t make promises he can’t keep. But he tucks the phone away, gives the house one last look, before he disappears beyond the gate and into the thick forest.

*

The quinjet takes off towards the Mediterranean Bay, stealth mode activated. Once they’ve set a course for the Dodecanese Islands, Sam sets the quinjet on autopilot before turning to look at the determined set of Steve’s jaw.

“I’m guessing you have some sort of idea,” Sam sighs.

“You could say that. I’m buying what Rogers is selling,” Steve confirms. “All of you, you don’t have to be a part of this. It’s going to get messy, we run a risk getting sold out, caught or worse, more trouble than we’re already in.”

Natasha chuckles. “What exactly have we been doing the past few months then, Steve?”

“I already told you what I want to do,” Wanda smiles. “I’ve got your back, Steve. What’s the plan?

“We follow leads on enhanced individuals, rumors, talks, whatever there is. We’ll dig up dead trails on individuals if we have to. We find them, we recruit them, we try to get more people on our side for what's to come.” Steve looks at all of them, four people, with but a year and three months before the Mad Titan comes knocking on their doorsteps. “Rogers needs us. Tony trusts him. We’re going to build an army."  
  
*

When Steve finally steps through the front door long after his twin had disappeared into the shadows of the forest, the first thing he sees is Tony sitting on a kitchen stool, an elbow propped on counter, a fork dangling in his other hand, jaw working on a full bite of lasagna. He is reading a report, projected before him in light blue text, the shadows of his face bathed in ethereal blue. Beside him lies the empty plate where Steve had put aside a generous portion earlier, the cling film that had previously covered the meal now in a small wad of plastic on the empty plate. Tony is eating leftovers right off the baking dish, working the fork around the slightly burnt edges, completely unguarded, and when the stubborn piece of crispy-edged-cheese wouldn’t budge, Steve watches as Tony’s face crumples into what Steve interprets as a displeased frown; it’s a subtle change in Tony’s face, no more than pressing his lips to a thin line, a bit of a crease appearing between his eyebrows, before Tony wrinkles his nose just once, lips quirking to the left with the motion. Tony takes his eyes off the report for a second, works the fork harder, scraping the glass baking dish until he gets what he wants. Tony pops it into his mouth and then goes right back to reading.

God, he’s beautiful.

It’s in that quiet moment, with no sound but the breeze gently swaying the trees beyond the walls of their dimly lit cottage, and Tony’s fork on the baking dish, that Steve realizes, with his stomach swooping inwards, throat closing up, breath catching in his throat, that falling in love with Tony had been so,  _so_ easy. That moments like this has happened countless times in the past. Steve can suddenly count all of them, with vivid clarity.

Steve remembers the first Thanksgiving party Tony had invited him to, after Stark Tower had been fully repaired after the the Battle of New York. He remembers the first Christmas party after that. The first time they trained together as Captain America and Iron man, their first public appearance at a Charity Gala in Los Angeles, and then the countless ones that followed after that. The first time Steve had stayed over at the newly inaugurated Avengers Tower, when Tony had walked in with pizza boxes stacked high and past his head, how he peeked from behind the large boxes with the widest, if not dorkiest smile, a complete opposite of the press smiles that is almost always painted on Tony’s face.

Steve thinks of each time Iron man stops debris from collapsing on civilians, how the repulsor rays from Tony’s palms and chest would cut down their enemies and their bases. He thinks of Tony stepping out of his armor, or into his armor, how gold and red would wrap and unravel around him, how that final thunk of the hud slamming down always, _always_ , made Steve suck in a short, quick breath. Every single time.

He thinks of all the times Tony had co-piloted the quinjet next to Steve, or how they had shared car rides together over the years. It’s the little things like Tony strapping his seat-belt on, or maybe adjusting his glasses on the bridge of his nose. Sometimes, it’s how he’d reach for the overhead control panel of the quinjet, or how he’d dictate numerical coordinates, because Tony has all their bases’ coordinates memorized.

Steve thinks of Tony delivering speeches, or contesting movie theories with Rhodey. He thinks of Tony’s fingers typing away at a keyboard, or gliding of the black and white keys of a grand piano. Or how Tony would wipe his hands on a rag at the workshop, how he had a habit of chewing on his pencils, or drumming the eraser tip over his right temple, or how handled his equipment and tool box when he’s relaxed and just lazily re-working the engine of a vintage sports car that he thinks is worth restoring.

Falling in love with Tony had been the easiest thing.

It’s admitting it to himself that had been the hardest thing.

Up until that very moment.

Falling in love with Tony is like coming home. Every single one of those instances, each time Steve had stepped into the threshold of Tony’s presence, each time Tony suddenly appeared within Steve’s orbit, Steve is pulled in by Tony’s gravity so, so strong, that there’s no escaping it. And suddenly, Tony has Steve’s attention, Steve’s focus, everything that Steve can call his. When Tony’s eyes are locked with his, Steve can see galaxies, can see the brightest sun in the solar system, reflecting countless stars in the milky way. When Tony smiles at him, it’s like being wrapped in warmth, of arms going around Steve’s shoulders, holiday dinners and presents under a tree, of fingers entwining between Steve’s own, of golden sunrises and warm light upon bare skin, passion under his palms. Having Tony in his life makes Steve think that he can do anything, that nothing is impossible.

(They had traveled through time -- impossible is nothing if Steve has Tony by his side.)   

Tony isn’t Steve’s first love, but standing there, watching Tony lick sauce from the corner of his lips, one hand typing up a response on a projected keyboard that appears on the marble counter, Steve realizes that what he wishes for in however many years he had left, is for Tony to be his last.

 _God, I am the world biggest, fucking idiot, the blindest,_ Steve thinks.

“You haven’t lost your touch,” Tony speaks out, casual, as he scoops another bite into his mouth, his other hand still typing.

Steve doesn’t reply; he can only stare, crossing the space between them in a daze, his knees suddenly weak, everything in him pliant and falling to pieces all over the tiled floor. Tony waves the keyboard away, message disappearing before the projection winks out.

“If you’re hungry, then you’re out of luck. You’re going to have to prepare something else.” Tony looks up then, lips parting to take the last bite off the now empty dish but pauses, fork slowly lowering from his mouth. “Steve?”

Steve sits heavily on the stool beside Tony, swallowing past something far too large in his throat, and god, he feels drained and elated at the same time, as he props his elbow on the counter for added support, to keep himself from wanting to curl into a ball at every single lost opportunity, at the staggering weight of his now realized love, this thing that’s full of fire and ash, wings wanting to break free from its bone white cage. Steve is never going to get over at how alive Tony is, how his chest shifts with each breath he takes, how his eyelashes brush over his cheekbones with each blink, how easy it is to admire him like because god, how— how did he keep looking away from this all these years?

Tony says his name again, setting the fork down, turning to face him completely, a slight, concerned frown on his face.

“Everything all right?” Tony asks.

“Yes, yes. S-Sorry, I -- I uh -- gosh…” Steve brings a hand up to his face, scrubbing it up and down, and shaking his head. Steve keeps his face buried in his hand for a moment too long, shoulders curling inwards in shame and regret, because Tony’s fingers are tentative, hesitant, right there on the curve of Steve’s arm. It’s warm, and familiar and god, Steve knows he’s being a goddamn fool, when everything in him crumbles and swells as big as a hot air balloon at the same time. Steve opens his mouth behind his fingers to tell Tony that it’s all good, that his twin is going to help, that he’s given Rogers his cellphone. But what comes out instead is something breathless, whisper-soft, cracking around the edges. “You ever have those moments where you suddenly have a life altering epiphany?”

“I’ve had a few of those...,” Tony admits after a pause.

Steve pulls his hands away from his face, purposely placing his palms flat on the counter and his knee. It’s a gesture of supplication, as he forces himself to meet Tony’s eyes, drowns himself in pools of whiskey embers and gold. Steve can forget time like this, can spend hours, he realizes, here, now, counting the lines on Tony’s face. He’s not as gray yet, his hair still favoring the medium fade and shorter spikes, where as years from now, Tony has a thicker head of wavy salt and pepper hair. He’d have deeper laugh lines, his neck longer too, because even though in five years Tony’s body heals from his trip in space, Tony never gains back the bulk and strength under his skin the way he had all those years ago, when Steve had first met him in Stuttgart.

Still, this younger, less worn, if still tense and suspicious Tony is just as beautiful as his older self.

“Steve…”

There’s something in the way Tony says his name, the way his eyes are wide, his lips parted in what Steve recognizes to be an expression of being caught off guard. The fingers on Steve’s arm tighten for a moment, as if Tony too, like Steve, is clinging to this moment of open realization.

And it’s so right, just the two of them, here, alone, in a place that’s felt more like a home -- _their home_ \-- in the past few days with just the two of them than the years they’ve spent together in the tower and the compound. Steve can see it, something like understanding, something like hope even, something too much like desperation and maybe even the first spark of forgiveness.

God, Steve doesn’t deserve this.

This isn’t his world.  

Steve doesn’t own the right to rob others of their second chances. Even if he could. Even if he just for once, can truly be unforgivably honest. WIth Tony. No lies. No hidden agendas. No cowardly inclinations.

“Tony, I need you to listen to me, because I’m only going to say this once.” Steve swallows, watches Tony shake his head, his fingers gripping Steve in warning. Steve sucks in a slow breath, finds that his thoughts turn to liquid in is mind as Tony shakes his head at him. “I gave Rogers my phone; he’s agreed to help. He’s going to recruit people, and I -- I am going to be a thorn on your side until this is all over.”

“Bold of you to assume you weren’t one before all this,” Tony says, an obvious attempt to stir the conversation in another direction.

“A bigger thorn, then,” Steve concedes, indulging Tony in his moment. “Tony, I don’t know what kind of future awaits us. I don’t know if this war is going to happen in the same as it did in my world, if it’s even going to follow the same pattern. I don’t even know if by warning all of you, by triggering all of you to prepare, somehow, that it’s -- if it’s going to help at all.”

Tony closes his eyes, shakes his head. “Steve --”

“But what I do know is that this isn’t my world,” Steve swallows and watches as Tony pulls his hand away. “I don’t belong here. And I never will. “

“And that’s your epiphany…” Tony stares at Steve quietly, pupils constricting, focus precise as a laser dot.

“No.” Steve shakes his head, a sad smile tugging loosely around the corners of lips before it falls completely. “This may not be my world, but right now, with you, here, all this?” Steve gestures and looks around at the empty lasagna tray, the last bite forgotten on the fork, the cottage walls and ceilings before he stops to look at Tony, inhales deeply and catches the slightest hint of Tony’s cologne and soap, that wondrously heady scent of musk and tea tree. “I am starting to wish that it was.” Tony goes incredibly still. “I always did realize things too late, too slow.”

“Do you want to stay in this world?” Tony’s voice cracks around the edges, unsure, like it isn’t his right or place to dare ask such a question.

The question hangs between them like a guillotine, with Steve staring at his fingers.

And somewhere in Steve’s chest, something urges him, for once, to be a little braver.

“Only if you want me to…” Steve finally says.

Steve doesn’t look up from his hands. There’s only so much courage Steve is able to muster when it comes to the things he really, really wants.

*

The trip back to New York is eerily quiet.

Tony avoids looking at him.  
  
*

The next day, after they arrive in New York, Steve gets a new phone delivered to the loft.

He tells Tony that he’s going to find Stephen Strange, letting him know where exactly he is going to be for the next hour or so. He texts Tony the address before he boards the subway, making his way to the New York Sanctum.

The Sorcerer Supreme is not Stephen Strange.

Instead, she is lithe, easily a head shorter than Steve, and surprisingly honest when Steve asks for Strange.

“You’re over a year too early, Captain,” she says, face pleasant, deceptively welcoming, polite, despite the guarded blankness gleaming over her eyes like polished mirrors. “Stephen Strange is still recovering from his accident. He isn’t ready yet.”

Steve stares at the necklace around her neck, one that he knows holds the Time Stone.

“Is this a bad time? There’s something I’d like to discuss with you,” Steve says instead, moving on to plan B, just as Bruce had told him.

“Of course,” she nods. The room shifts in an instant, changing from the main entryway to something more comfortable, an office of sorts, more suited to entertain visitors. Steve finds himself sitting down on a leather chair, the Sorcerer Supreme rolling her sleeves up, seated across from him, a tray of tea between them. He tries not to dry heave or be too obvious with how disoriented he is with the sudden shift of his surroundings. “I hope honey in your tea is all right.”

“Sure…” Steve croaks, swallowing a little awkwardly, adjusting himself on the seat as the tea is poured.

He graciously accepts the offered cup, pointedly takes a polite sip and offers his thanks. The niceties ends when the Sorcerer Supreme takes her second sip, then sets her cup down.

“Tell me, Captain Rogers, what is it do you wish to discuss?”

“The Mad Titan, Thanos,” Steve says.

When he sees something shift in the Sorcerer Supreme’s demeanor, he realizes he’s made the right call coming here.

*

Tony’s phone buzzes in the middle of a meeting with Pepper.

It’s one line from Steve. His meeting at the Sanctum must have concluded because the message reads:

_Looks like we’ve got magic in the bag._

The message distracts Tony for the rest of the meeting.

He doesn’t realize how the little update had affected him until Pepper leans over casually as they adjourn the god awful board meeting and says, _well, you’re in a good mood._

The statement, throws Tony for a loop, distracting him for the rest of the day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. Yeah. I dunno. Bleh. Meh.
> 
> It was unrealistic to think that I'd finish this in 5 chapters. Ahhhhh fuck it. So. [Team Phoenix vs Team Dragon? ~~Ignore that snake lol~~](http://www.twitrcovers.com/wp-content/uploads/2014/06/Dragon-and-Phoenix-l.jpg)
> 
> Thank you for reading! I’m horrible at answering comments here. But please know I read every single one and that’s I appreciate your thoughts, your reactions, everything!
> 
> Feel free to hit me up at at tumblr (pinkcatharsis) or Discord (pandashi#7565) :D


	5. 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Self beta'd. Will always edit/fix as I reread/revisit.

The most logical thing to happen next is to let Fury know about their guest from the future. 

It happens sooner rather than later and when Fury has all the information he needs, he says the most profound thing.

“Well, maybe this is a fight that shouldn’t just be about earth’s heroes. If he’s a problem to all the world’s out there, why do  _ we _ have to carry the entire burden?” 

Tony stares at Nick like he’s solved the equation to the Birch and Swinnerton-Dyer conjecture.   


Nick leaves with promise to see what he can do. 

*

In the wake of Nick’s departure, Tony is left behind with a quiet and suddenly withdrawn Steve. Tony doesn’t think he’s ever seen Steve shut down quite like this. He’s more familiar with Steve look disappointed, Steve looking upset, how the tension would pull his jaw, shoulders and back tight like a cocked bowstring. Tony is more accustomed to the shadow that would cross Steve’s usually bright blue eyes, like storm clouding over the sun and darkening the sea. 

This is something else.

This is foreign.

“What’s eating you? Meeting didn’t go the way you expected?” Tony asks, as he loosens his tie and leaves it to hang around his neck. 

“It’s gone exactly as I hoped it would. It’s just that…” Steve trails off as the sudden blankness on his face blooms to a fascinating display of betrayal and disappointment. “You were right, again. Remember when we first met, on the helicarrier, you said Fury’s secrets has secrets?” 

Tony remembers that day like it were only yesterday; he hums in agreement.

“Maybe it’s just me but, if we had this kind of support from the beginning, maybe if we were made privy to Captain Marvel’s existence, that there’s one of us out there who can actually, you know,” Steve gestures with his hand, waving it in a frustrated way that Tony doesn’t remember seeing Steve ever do. It’s stiff, rough, looking like it’s itching to  _ break _ something. “Get help, maybe we would have had to go through what we did…” Steve stands, shaking his head, collecting the half empty coffee mugs from the table and walking towards the kitchen. “You’d think I’d  _ learn _ by now…”

Tony says nothing. He offers no words of comfort. Leaves Steve to wallow in his thoughts of disappointment.

After all, Tony knows a little too much about having people who shouldn’t disappoint you ends up letting you down.

  
  


*

 

It’s simple.

Sometimes, it’s the ones you respect or love the most that will let you down. They are the ones who will disappoint you more because your expectations of them are a lot higher than most. And when you feel shattered, defeated, morose or just upset that you had to bury friends when you could have had a bigger cosmic assistance to what indeed, seems to be a universal level problem, it’s not them who have let you down. 

It’s just that your expectations on what should have been, should  _ be _ are not met. 

It isn’t Nick Fury’s fault. Not really.

The battle happened quick. Not enough time to prepare, judging by the timeline Steve had provided.

  
  


*

 

Tony discovers that he has a problem when all he seems to think about is Steve.

It starts out subtle with Tony mulling their meeting with Fury and what had transpired in Fethiye, their time together, how the weight of Steve’s gaze caressed him like a gentle swipe of a brush, slow, gentle, deliberate. Tony understands loss, know how it can make a man desperate, bring the world crashing down in a blink of an eye, how everything would dull to a hush and there’s nothing but the vacuum of a black hole sucking out everything that’s good in the world into one open, black chasm of nothing. Tony isn’t a stranger to loss, lies and betrayal.

The scars on his body and nightmarish memories are a testament to that.

He understands why Steve looks at him the way he does.

Tony had done the same to Pepper for a long, long time after Killian. Sometimes, he still does. 

It’s not that he minds being looked at like that. It’s the fact that Tony isn’t sure what he should do with it.

With Pepper, they reached mutual understanding that they are better as family, as the best of friends rather than together. And while their love for each other runs deeper than just romance, while their love surpasses things like sex, kisses, dates and anniversaries, their past can never be ignored. If Tony allows himself, it’s easy to want Pepper, to feel the warmth of her creamy-peach skin under his palms, to listen to her breath hitch in his ear as he fills her, kisses her neck, grab hold of her silky, long, red hair in a fist. It’s so, so easy to want her. There is no animosity between them, there are no regrets, no bitterness or betrayals that may have soured their relationship with each other.

Sometimes things don’t work.

And Pepper, for all the love she has for Tony, didn’t want to make Tony stop. Not when Tony doesn’t want to stop. While Tony didn’t want to keep Pepper in a relationship that she couldn’t handle.

Tony understands Pepper. 

He thought he understood Steve. 

Siberia proved Tony wrong.

  
  


*

 

Thinking of Steve comes as easy as breathing.

Tony is thinking of how Steve had looked like lying on a sun bed by the pool, in sweats and a tank top, reading a book he found in one of the living room shelves in the cottage, jaw relaxed, an arm under his head, face turned away from the glare of the sun as he flips pages with just his thumb. There had been a slight flush around his neck from the warmth of the sun, the heat making it rise all the way up to Steve’s ears. Tony remembers thinking how ridiculous Steve must look, with only half of his face red. Tony had forgotten he had been watching him for too long, how the shorter, dyed darker hair gleamed gold under the sun. Steve had turned to him all of a sudden, mid-yawn, lazy, like a dog lounging belly up, blinking blue eyes at him, before asking if Tony wanted some lemonade.

Tony had taken a little too long to respond, his gaze raking over the reddened half of Steve’s face, before Steve had prompted him out of his stupor. When Tony had nodded to whatever the question was, a small amused smile danced around the corners of Steve’s lips. That smile turned to a grin when he handed Tony a tall glass of icy lemonade. Tony had stared at it, unsure why he’s being given a lemonade, until it hits him. Steve had tried to tuck his grin behind a book. 

It’s that smile that Tony is remembering, that cheeky, not-so-good-golden-boy smile that keeps flashing behind his eyelids. The kind that belied something more than the public persona of America’s perfect soldier, the guy who helped old ladies across the street, saved cats from the tree tops or helped lost children find their parents in shopping malls and grocery stores. That smile hid a sharper mind, hinted at something witty, endless possibilities of inappropriate, intelligent jokes, knowledge of more than the propaganda Steve was made to be.

That smile disrupts the anger in Tony’s chest, distorts his perception of Steve Rogers because Steve of the future is everything Tony had told himself he shouldn’t touch, shouldn’t indulge on, shouldn’t  _ dare _ think about. Steve of the future is everything Tony knows of Steve, had seen glances of in the Steve of his world, the good, the funny, the wit, the online troll, the one who had the most entertaining twitter feed, the one who is perfect and yet imperfect. It’s those little cheeky crumbs that Steve had left behind in his wake, sometimes exposed a little too openly in front of Tony when they’re on their own, that had drawn Tony to Steve in the first place.

The shield, the name, the title -- Tony never cared for it. 

He had gotten sick of it by the time he was eight.

Tony remembers how they drank the lemonade in companionable silence and how, in that quiet afternoon, Tony had discovered that Steve tends to chew on his straw when his mind is immersed in something else. Tony would have gotten an earful if he  _ dared _ chew his straw like that during his sessions learning table etiquette. 

And there Steve was, chewing at it and not giving a fuck. The man who was -- is perfect. 

Supposedly.  
  


*  
  


Tony finds himself counting the ‘flaws’ Steve has, ‘flaws’ that Rogers, wherever the hell he may be right now, shares, too. He makes a mental list of them, thinks of all the times he had been in Steve’s vicinity, all the little things he picked up over the years.

They’re surprisingly plenty.

(Then again, Tony always did watch Steve from afar, gravitated towards him, like a moth to a flame.)

Rogers liked to do the crossword in the New York times on Sunday mornings with a cup of coffee. He always used a blue pen. When Tony had seen him mumbling unhappily at a messy crossword one morning, Tony asked him,  _ why don’t you just use a pencil? _

Rogers had responded,  _ part of the challenge is to not make mistakes. If I used a pencil, I can erase my answers. _

Rogers always signed his emails with, ‘kind regards’ no matter how irritated he got in any sort of correspondence. 

Rogers didn’t believe in food wastage, insisted on recycling leftovers. Tony thinks that Rogers’ meatloaf still stands as the best meatloaf. Rogers had introduced milk cake into the tower before milk cake even became an online trend. Tony remembers the night Steve had scraped the last bit of pound cake from the pan and dumped the last half a cup of milk in the fridge over it. Tony remembers how he hummed and ate off the plate like it’s something purchased out of The Cake Pusher.

Rogers dog eared his books from the bottom, not the top. 

Rogers loved sticky-notes; he had gone out of his way to ensure he had a steady of supply of different colors assigned to each avenger, so that when he leaves something of note in the common area, everyone knew if it was theirs or not from afar.

Rogers loved gag t-shirts. Tony will never forget how Rogers paraded around the tower on a Sunday morning, a little before Ultron debacle, dressed in a t-shirt that read:  _ I got a dig bick. You that read wrong. You read that wrong too. _

Tony had read it wrong. Everyone had. And Rogers looked incredibly amused.

Rogers also collected socks. Colorful socks. All kinds of socks from cartoon characters, funny PSAs, neon patterns or animal prints. It didn’t matter what it was. If it’s something quirky, Rogers had it.

Rogers also liked watching cartoons and also gets emotionally invested in some. He would turn into an anti-social, lazy, shut-in on some days, simply because he didn’t want to be disturbed as he watched his cartoons. 

Rogers also fed the alley cats two streets over. He keeps a giant bag of dried cat food and tuna that he buys on bargain deals from Walmart under the sink.

And if there’s anyone who had an adventurous palette, it’s Rogers. Rogers would go through social media trends on things to try in New York. If someone mentioned raindrop cake, unicorn grilled cheese or rainbow bagels, Rogers would be the first to respond with either  _ I’ve tried it! _ Or a,  _ really? Where can I get that? _ Tony never understood why Rogers was invested in quirky things New York is well known for, but he figured it’s probably Rogers’ way of assimilating into the future. 

The more Tony thinks about them, the more he realizes how wrong it is to call them flaws. 

They aren’t flaws at all.

They’re the little things that made Captain America perfect to Tony Stark. They’re the little things that defined Steve Rogers.

*  
  


Christmas comes and goes.

Steve leaves him a message, complete with a funny Santa Clause .gif. It’s a generic greeting, nothing too personal, but the sentiment leaps out of the phone screen at Tony.

It does nothing to help Tony stop thinking about everything and anything that is Steve Rogers.

And while they’re just thoughts, nothing but screenplay in an invisible screen, a safe little space in his mind for him to experiment on the what ifs and ideas before he verbalize  _ anything _ , they are still distracting. They are still successful in pulling him away from reality. Thoughts, after all, is freedom to roam around infinite possibilities without getting lost.

A reality that, Tony realizes, as he forces himself to focus on the conversation at hand with Accutech, is something he is starting to not exactly hate.

  
*   
  


A little before Christmas morning, with dawn barely peeking from the horizon, Tony sits up with a jerk in his bed in the compound, short of breath and fingers scrambling up to his chest.

He doesn’t remember what he dreams off, the sequence of images. He only remembers the crushing weight on his chest, the whispers of betrayal in his ear from those who had died in the hands of his weapons and bad choices.

He spends a few minutes pacing the room, staring out the window, sweaty forehead pressed against the poor glass. It’s at this time that Tony notices the blinking green light on his phone reflecting on the glass. It’s somewhere here that he scrolls through numerous text messages, one after the other from Rogers. 

2:15 AM    
Merry Christmas, Tony. I hope you’re not celebrating this alone. 

2:17 AM  
I realized how insensitive that first message was after I sent it. I’m sorry. You’re right. I did take all the children after the divorce.

2:22  
Too soon, I think. Too soon for me. Too soon for you. I want to call you. I should call you. This isn’t easy.

2:30  
Texting you used to be easy. I don’t even know if you’re seeing this. I hope you are. God, I’m a mess.

2:49  
I just wanted to wish you a Merry Christmas. And wanted you to know that I’ve worked on a few things and a report should be coming your way on Project: Grimace

2:52  
I’m hoping you’re well. I’m hoping my twin isn’t giving you too much trouble. I’m hoping you spent Christmas surrounded by the people who have mattered to you from the beginning -- Pepper, Rhodey, Happy. But I’m thinking about you. It’s all I do, apparently. I miss you. And god, you deserve better, you deserve everything that’s good in this world.

2:53  
Merry Christmas, Tony.

3:05  
I’m sorry. 

Tony responds with a civil, and more a more collected:  _ Merry Christmas, old man. _

All the while, he pretends his heart isn’t racing under his rib cage and every bit of his body isn’t throbbing with an ache Tony knows he can do nothing about.

 

*

 

Steve, however, leaves him a voice note at the crack of dawn, roughly an hour after Tony had responded to Rogers:

_ Merry Christmas, Tony. Not sure what your schedule is like, but I’m hoping the parties and dinners you do go to are with pleasant company. You did give me time off. But if you ever need to bail, I’d be happy to whisk you out of anywhere. _

Tony listens to the message at least ten times, trying to find a tenor of a lie in Steve’s voice. He finds none.

Tony chooses to not respond.

 

*

The report Rogers had been referring to comes about three hours later, somewhere between Tony nursing a cup of coffee and falling asleep on the lazyboy chair in his laboratory. 

It’s a detailed report, with lots of names and information about who Steve’s been ‘recruiting’ and ‘hanging out’ with these days. Names like Hercules, Mockingbird, Moon Knight, Shang-Chi, White Tiger and Sunspot. 

What follows after is a large sized e-mail with an attachment. The subject read: Late Christmas.

Tony opens it and finds himself staring at wonderful painting of Iron Man rising above ash and rubble. It’s a wonderful piece of art, one that doesn’t look like it was painted in a few hours. It’s too detailed. Too well thought of.

An image of Steve painting at night, away from prying eyes comes unbidden in Tony’s mind. He has seen Steve paint before, seen the relaxed set of his jaw, while his lips pressed into a thin line in concentration, a little wrinkle appearing between his eyebrows when he mixes colors, or when he’s focused on a particular brush stroke on the canvas, or when he’s working profusely at the drawing tablet. Steves are eyes are always sharper, a darker blue, like the deepest parts of the Atlantic Ocean. Tony always admired a man practicing his craft, maybe because as an engineer, he can relate in creating something, wanting to get the idea out and into the open; it isn’t a surprise that Steve practicing his traditional or digital art had turned out to be one of the things Tony enjoyed watching him do.

Now that Tony thinks of it, he mostly watched Steve without exactly realizing that he was actually watching Steve. 

_ Well, how about that. _

Tony spends the whole afternoon staring at it with his brain melting right out of his ears because this isn’t something he had expected to receive. It certainly isn’t something he should be flattered about either, given everything that has happened.

God, he needed a bigger drink.

 

*

Tony responds to the e-mail a little later in the evening, perhaps a little bitterly drunk than he should have been with just one word:

_ Thanks. _

He then calls Steve and tells him he’s on the clock for New Year’s Eve. Steve sounds surprised, concerned, because Tony’s words are slurred and a little thick as he rats out the address of the good, old, refurbished Stark Manor in upstate New York. The one house he’s never set foot on since he turned twenty after the accident. The one house he swore to never go back to after years of thinking that Howard had driven himself stupidly into a tree, taking Maria with him, the goddamn bastard.

It didn’t seem right to not go back when it had all been a lie.

 

*

Stark Industries annual New Year’s party is one of the biggest events in New York. 

And because Tony’s presence is mandatory, as are his speeches alongside Pepper’s, he stands there smiling widely like a celebrity on the red carpet once he steps out of his Bentley, dressed in a custom all black Dior suit. The only peek of color in the whole ensemble for the evening are the silver cufflinks on his sleeve, his Francois-Paul Journe watch and the red soles of his Louboutin dress shoes. 

The camera flashes are blinding, as are the explosive oohs and titters from people who really did not give a rat’s ass about Tony’s well being over all. For the next two hours, Tony follows the strict schedule Pepper’s assistant had sent him. He mingles, he schmoozes, he smiles and flirts, delivers all his speeches, strokes egos of all the right people before they settle in for dinner. 

And through it all, Robert Evans is a mere shadow, expression as placid as a lake behind blue tinted frameless glasses, standing exactly two paces behind Tony when he walks, and remaining about a meter and a half in distance when Tony engages in a conversation. Like all the other bodyguards peppered around the party hall, Steve is dressed in all black. The only thing that stands out is his bright red tie, something Tony had pulled out of his own closet when Steve had arrived at the manor. It’s easy to spot that red in the sea of glamour and avante garde. 

Tony thinks he’s had a little too many flutes of champagne after the first two hours because there he is, ignoring all the dinner courses set before him at the table, eyes focused on Steve who is standing by the bar, exactly ten meters away from him, staring right back. Not even Happy, who is standing next to Steve, can make Tony look away. Happy who is trying to look as intimidating, as tall, as strong, as Captain America.

Tony can’t stop the grin from splitting his face. And either it was a trick of the light but Tony swears he actually sees Steve  _ fidget _ .

Only Steve would take a role like this seriously, even in a place and setting like this which Steve, despite his experience at being a showman, actually detests. Tony knows this. He’s been to so many fundraisers with Steve and the avengers to not notice how uncomfortable Steve is right now. 

It’s a little funny.

He and Pepper engage in a conversation after dinner at the bar, talking about the room in general, what to expect in the new fiscal year, just an hour before the countdown when Pepper gets whiskey away by some friends. Tony evening goes to total shit in that very moment when a Christine saunters her way towards him, props herself on a barstool and engages on a topic that sours Tony’s mood incredibly fast.

“So, do you miss them?” Christine asks, focused on picking up any traces of discomfort in Tony’s body language.

Tony doesn’t pretend that he doesn’t know what Christine is referring to. Ever since Leipzig, Tony had only given one press conference on the current status of the Avengers. Nothing had followed after that and at any turn and corner, Tony is almost always bombarded for a statement on where he thinks the renegades are.

“No,” Tony answers, crisp and firm. Christine looks surprised but Tony knows her better than to think that she’s buying into his response.

“I would have thought that you would, given how close knit all of you were. Almost like family,” Christine shrugs. “It’s a little bland without them, I have to admit.”

“Well, you should know better by now, hmm?” Tony cocks an eyebrow, pushing himself off the bar and draining the remains of his scotch in one quick gulp. “The next time you actually want a statement from me, I do suggest you go through the proper channels. It’s a party, we’re here to have a good time. It’s New Year’s eve. You’re a smart, intelligent reporter. Just because I have been lenient with people like you, doesn’t mean I won’t slap you with a lawsuit if you, like others, keep trying to engage on a topic I’ve already addressed and not respecting my privacy.”

It comes out cold, vicious, cutting, everything Tony used to keep under lock and key. Tony’s expression is dark and judging by the look on Christine’s face, she had not expected that kind of response. There’s blood rushing in Tony’s ears, loud and pulsing in sync with the raging beat of his heart. It drums like thunder under his rib cage, deafening, white hot. Christine’s lips are moving, she’s saying something. Tony doesn’t hear her until a familiar, strong, sure fingers curls around the curve of Tony’s shoulder.

“Sir, is she bothering you?” Steve asks, expression unreadable.

“Yes,” Tony answers, tilting his head and exhaling slowly. “She actually is.”

“Ma’am, I’m going to have to escort you away, please,” Steve responds, putting himself between Tony and Christine. 

It gets a few side glances, a few curious looks from across the hall, and suddenly, Tony is looking at everyone’s faces. He gets slammed by how alone he is in a room full of people, because Pepper is nowhere to be found, Happy is not amongst the body guards, Rhodey is not nearby because he’s in Boston, and Steve, who is beside him, isn’t even part of this world. He’s a trespasser. 

Something in Tony’s chest tightens, firing warning alarms in Tony’s head. The noise around him distorts, words slurring like he’s high on marijuana, sounds elongating, reality bending out of shape. There are countless faces around him, laughing, giggling, making drunken expressions, all of which he doesn’t recognize, all of them present because it’s his name, his company, his party, and yet there Tony is, feeling as alone surrounded by people just as much as he would be if he had locked himself in a room. Suddenly he feels sick, disgusted, disappointed, hurt, as his chest caves inwards, a cluster of sparkplugs in his stomach going off all at the same time, fueling panic in his veins because he doesn’t know these people, he doesn’t even like being here even if it’s all part of the role, that the sad truth is, he does miss the team. They made the world bearable. They filled his little fishbowl size of a world with things he didn’t think a Stark would be worthy of because when you’re on top, you’re almost always alone, aren’t you? Because Tony’s world had stopped growing at four, is contained between the walls of Stark Manor, has remained that way since he assembled his first circuit board. And if he does leave his little world, he’s always in a suit of iron, an illusion of freedom because Tony has the skies as his stomping ground, as wide and endless as the eyes can see. But even then, he is confined in red and gold, contained, locked away from eyes, protected by metal just like the iron gates of his home. Because Stark men are made and bred differently; they see a future. There is no self in being a Stark. Not one that’s real, anyway. 

Not one that  _ lasts. _

Nausea turns, capsizing Tony like a ship in a vicious as storm, as he frantically looks for Pepper, keeping his face as neutral as it can because if he can just spot her, if he can drop anchor and hold on until the winds stop howling all around him, he can face anything. She had been talking to Zurro just sometime ago, god, where is she?  _ Whereisshe? _

In a desperate attempt to look for any familiarity, Tony turns his gaze at Steve, sees the face of a man others doesn’t see because of the contact lenses he’s got on. Steve looks frustrated, the set of his jaw firm. Tony watches it tighten, watches Steve grit his teeth, and before more words can be exchanged, before embarrassment drowns Christine like a tidal wave, before Tony can lose more of his shit, before the storm in his chest can fully morph to a full on panic attack at the sea of strangers all staring at him, Tony’s hand snaps forward, firm and gripping at Steve’s elbow.

“No,” Tony states, syllables hoarse. “We’re leaving. Let’s go.”

Tony forces a smile on his lips and with bravado that stems from practice since the day he had learned to work, he joins the crowd, making a beeline for the exit.

 

*

They get stuck in traffic and end up seeing a reflection of the fireworks on one of the glass high rises. Tony watches the colors and shapes change as he tries to keep his breaths even, tries to stop shaking in the passenger seat as Steve concentrates on the road, both hands white knuckled on the wheel. The loud noise drowns the deafening drum of Tony’s heart, one that hasn’t slowed down since he had gotten cornered at the bar. Heat lingers just under his skin, cold sweat beading under his collar. 

Tony reaches up and viciously tugs the tie free, popping the first few buttons open, pressing his head backwards against the headrest. He closes his eyes, grips his knees hard until they ache, squashing the urge to rub at his chest and further make himself look pathetic and weak in front of Steve.

“I’m sorry,” Steve apologizes. It’s all he does. Something about it sparks a little anger in Tony’s already rapidly plummeting mood. “I should have been paying more attention. I don’t recall there being any mentions of the press in the guest list; it’s possible Christine may have been someone’s plus one.”

“I’m a big boy, don’t worry about it.” Tony tugs the black tie off all the way, stuffing it into his pocket. Tony can’t keep still; he suffocates under the hold of the seatbelt. It’s slow moving traffic because the countdown is just minutes away. A part of him wishes desperately that he had called for a suit, Steve be damned. 

Steve is watching him, worry etched all over his face. It pisses Tony off like nothing ever has before. “Tony--”

“So your twin’s been busy,” Tony cuts him off, syllables trembling, coming out a little choppy.

Steve pretends not to notice.

“What’s he done now?” Steve turns his eyes back on the road, clearly rolling with this. 

That, for some reason, just fuels Tony’s anger more. Because it means that Steve understands the coping mechanism Tony hs chosen for the night. Tony pointedly stares at a scratched rearview mirror of the Prius right next to their car. 

“Recruiting people from god knows where. Apparently, he’s listening to you. How the hell did you make him buy your pitch?” Tony turns his gaze away from the window when Steve doesn’t reply immediately.

Steve is pulled taut like a bowstring, ready to snap upon release. Tony watches his Adam’s apple bob once before he responds in feigned casualty. “I gave him a reason to fight for his world.” Steve clears his throat. 

“Oh?” It comes out dry, cruel, mocking.

“I told him you’d die and there’s no bringing you back.”

“And what’s so wrong with that?” Tony asks, the words coming out in a soft breath. The car suddenly jolts with a sudden break, Steve blinking rapidly at the bumper that is mere inches away in front of them. 

“To the world? Probably nothing, that’s what heroes do right?” Steve clears his throat again, like he’s got a nasty cough itching to come out at the back of his throat. “You always were the best and bravest amongst us…”

Something about that statement delivers a blow that cracks at Tony’s sternum. 

“So my death is his motivation,” Tony clarifies. “Is that what you’re saying? Because I could die in my sleep, too. I could have died in Siberia, god knows the recovery that followed took forever. I could have died in Germany, I could have died at any point in time, would that have made you try to travel back in time because you, well,  _ you _ certainly didn’t. Not from your story.”

“That’s right,” Steve agrees, nostrils flaring in a sharp inhale. “Your death has been my motivation. I don’t pretend otherwise. I didn’t hide that from you either. And the reason Rogers is buying my story is because this is the only way he can start to mend the bridge between himself and you. It’s the only way he  _ sees _ .”

Tony turns around sharply in his seat, jerking within the confines of is seatbelt in fury, irritation, nervousness because there it is again, that allusion towards something that Starks do not deserve, words that mean something more, words that Tony doesn’t know what to do with, how to interpret and absorb properly. It wraps the hard syllables of Steve’s words with something soft, gentle, affectionate, every little thing Tony thinks  _ must _ be an illusion. 

“I mean I couldn’t do it,” Steve continues, sucking in another deep breath. “I couldn’t tell you about your parents, I couldn’t tell you that my best friend killed your parents. Not even seven years later. I couldn't tell you that I loved you, always have and always will because how twisted would that be, Tony? Hiding something like that about your family and then telling you I loved you? Or even the other way around? I couldn’t do both.”

“We were  _ friends _ , Steve!” Tony shouts the words. 

“And I was  _ scared _ !” Steve snaps, yells the words out, shakes with it as the car comes to a complete halt, horns blaring all around them like a frustrated orchestra.

“So was I!” Tony yells right back, a pitch higher than the noise around them, heart thundering under his rib cage that it knocks the breath out of his lungs, makes his head spin with dizzying grief and shock, because the verdict is out. Tony isn’t sure if it’s phantom pain, or if it’s real pain, but the adrenaline in his veins paves the way for a sudden headache. It’s the kind that radiates down the length of his neck, all the way down his left arm, leaving his fingers tingling. Tony grits his teeth, tells himself to calmdown as his fists and unfists his left hand, pressing the palm to his chest and counting his breaths slowly. “Since we are being very honest here, let me tell you something. Things were never the same after Ultron, and that’s on me. I let my fear govern my choices. We dropped an entire city back to where it was ripped out off. Who the fuck do you think would believe me, or sympathize with me, if I told them what I saw? Earth nothing but a pile of bodies, you dying under my hands, you telling that I could have saved all of you? It sounds arrogant, doesn’t it?”

Tony looks up at Steve, dares him to challenge the words that had tumbled out of his mouth like word vomit. Steve looks like he’s coming apart, chest heaving a little too fast under the knot of his red tie, blue eyes blown wide, a flush on his cheeks. The steering wheel creaks under his palms. The sound of it makes Steve release the steering wheel before he can break it, palms moving to grip at his own knee caps instead. Cars starts to drive around them, the blare of angry horns continuing to echo as drivers throw angry swear words and glances back at the tinted glass. 

“Ultron wasn’t your fault,” Steve says slowly, full of conviction.

“Did you ever say that to dead-me?” Tony counters, watches Steve flinch and shrink in his seat.

“It wouldn’t have changed things,” Steve murmurs, moisture gathering at the corners of his eyes.

“If dead-me is anything like me, it probably would have made all the difference. Knowing that he had you.” Steve’s breath hitches audibly, as he goes incredibly still in his seat. “But I guess you’ll never know, hmm?”

The car is suddenly illuminated with a bright flash of exploding colors, before the sound of fireworks reaches their ears. It’s distant, muffled, like someone microwaving popcorn a car over. New York is bright and golden for a full minute after midnight. They sit there in silence, watching like several others on the highway. They’re rainbows in the dark, fiery sparks whipping in the sky, brilliant inks of light on a canvas of muted stars.

Steve’s love would have been like that too, Tony thinks, perhaps, once upon a time, for the dead him in Steve’s world. It would have illuminated Tony’s pitifully small world, something to hold as his in the dark. In a way, Tony is glad he married Pepper, is glad that dead him is indeed a lot braver, the best of everyone. Tony doesn’t think he’ll match up to that kind of heroism. He doesn’t think he has it in him to stop, to settle by a picturesque lake and be content to hold little hands in his, watch the world evolve and change through a little girl’s optimistic eyes instead of his hooded ones.

Tony doesn’t think he’s  _ that _ brave.

 

*

 

The phone rings a little before they reach the open empty road that would lead to the manor. The caller ID flashes the name World’s Biggest Idiot as the caller. Tony promptly ignores the slightly befuddled look Steve is giving him as he presses the answer button.

“Tony,” Tony answers as a greeting, a confirmation.

“Oh,” comes the surprised sound, like Rogers had not been expecting Tony to pick up the phone in the second ring. “Hey, uh, hi. I just -- I mean, well, I’m glad you answered...

It’s painfully awkward, incredibly out of place. Tony doesn’t know how to handle it. He almost regrets answering the phone at all. 

“Why wouldn’t I?” Tony counters. He is met with a choking silence that makes him imagine Rogers ducking his head, pressing his palm at the back of his head as his fingers fist into thicker, longer blond locks in frustration. Rogers is probably sitting somewhere isolated too, in his barely held together uniform, away from the team, tucked away in the shadows sharing a secret phone call. 

“I just…” Rogers sucks in a deep breath. “Happy New Year, Tony.” 

The words are soft, a gentle whisper, despite the long distance static between them.

It’s an olive branch of sorts. A brick being laid down to mend a broken bridge. 

“Is it already 2017 where you’re at?” Tony asks, as Steve turns into the garage, slowing the car to a careful stop.

“It is. We’re in Gabes, Tunisia…” Rogers answers without preamble. It’s like he’s not even trying to hide anything. It’s enough to stun Tony into obvious surprised silence. “I just called to wish you that. I hope to see you soon, Tony.”

“Sure.” Tony unbuckles his seatbelt and gets out of the car. “We’ll plan it.”

“Take care of yourself?” Rogers asks.

“Always…”

Rogers whispers a gentle goodbye and disconnects the call. Tony stands there, staring at the blank screen on his phone, unsure of what to make of all that.

He is shocked out of his stupor when his phone suddenly rings, Steve’s name Universe’s Biggest Idiot flashing on his screen. Tony’s gaze whips up from his phone to Steve’s peering face, who ends the call and tucks his phone away, amusement wrinkling around the corner of his eyes, a grin obviously suppressed between tightly pressed lips.

“What?” Tony asks, daring Steve to challenge him on the name,

“It’s not wrong,” Steve says before he leaves Tony to cover up the car like the good employee he is.

*

Tony finds himself sitting on the piano bench that he doesn’t dare approach since his parents death all those years ago. When he made the decision to move in to Stark Manor, he had gotten rid of a lot of thing. Most of the dated furniture, and anything of value were either put into auction or donated to galleries and charities. 

Only five things remained untouched: Maria’s grand piano, Howard’s study, Maria’s favorite tea set and Maria’s rose garden. 

The rose garden in the back was always cared for. Tony didn’t have the heart to strip away one of the few things he had the most fondest memories of. He remembers springs as a child where he and Maria would have breakfast surrounded by fully bloomed roses. They would talk about Tony’s school projects and Maria’s charity work, and sometimes, the rarest of times, Howard too, would be at the table. Howard too, would talk about the latest military armor Stark Industries is currently designing.  Sometimes, Howard would even help Tony cut his pancakes, because Tony’s hands, while it promises to be strong one day, isn’t always the steadiest when handling heavy silverware. 

They were mostly quiet breakfasts but Tony remembers sitting there and feeling not so out of place like his classmates, who always boasts of having Sunday breakfast or brunch with their parents and siblings. Whenever those breakfasts happen, Tony returns to school with his chest puffed out and proud to say that he too, had spent time with his parents.

The piano is surrounded by a curving glass window that overlooks the rose garden. In the dim lighting, the garden is bare, all jagged lines of winter. In a weeks time, the garden would be an eden of blooming David Austins, Floribunda, Grandiflora, Hybrid Tea, Alba and Bourbon roses. The east side of the garden would smell sweeter, attracting a flock of butterflies and honey bees. Tony must have been staring beyond the glass for too long because Steve appears in his peripheral vision, suit jacket folded over an arm, that odd gentle look on his face again.

“You all right?” Steve asks, soft, his whisper too loud in the empty house. 

“Yep,” Tony blinks away the memory of his mother’s garden, bring the glass that he had been idly swirling in his grip to his lip. He doesn’t taste what he’s drinking.

“Do you need anything from me?” Steve asks.

“As an employee? No,” Tony puts the dismissal out there. “Thank you for your time tonight.”

“You don’t have to thank me,” Steve mumbles, tucking his hands into his pockets. 

“Do you need anything from me?” Tony asks. He watches as hesitation tugs at the corners of Steve’s face, how blue eyes slides off to the corner momentarily before Steve straightens his posture, every bit the disciplined military man he is.

He straightens himself like he’s preparing for rejection, like he’s preparing to be told to fuck off.

“I’d like to spend time with you,” Steve answers. “Just, be with you, but…”

“But…?”

“I won’t if you don’t want to.” Steve ducks his gaze for a moment, swallowing something past his throat before forcing himself to meet Tony’s gaze.

It’s foolish, desperate bravado, jet fueled by guilt.

Captain America stands tall and proud, tie hanging around his neck, first three buttons undone, feet firm on the ground, unwilling to move or bend, chin up, chest out, iron in his spine. People would only see the brave man. They won’t notice the tension on Steve’s jaw, making it more pronounced than normal. They won’t notice the slight furrow between Steve’s brows, or how his nostrils flare with each measured intake of breath. They don’t see how despite Steve’s strong stance as Captain America, he’s still that skinny, small, little boy from Brooklyn, masquerading in this Super Soldier perfection.

Tony pats the bench next to him in an offering, turning to push open the lid. 

The manor is well kept, clean, not a spec of dust or imperfection in any of Maria’s things. The piano is no exception.

“You know I haven’t sat on this bench since… well, since.” Tony shrugs and presses a few keys and carefully segues into playing Glen Miller,  _ don’t sit under the apple tree with anyone else but me _ . 

“I’m sorry,” Steve murmurs, hands folded over his knees. It’s an awkward position

“Don’t be,” Tony misses a key and flinches. “That was my choice.”

“It’s a lovely home, Tony,” Steve says, looking over at a painting on the wall.

“It’s too big for one person. It was too big for a kid, my parents and Jarvis.” Tony shrugs. “Since we’re being honest and I respect your honesty, including your twin’s then I guess I should reciprocate, hmm? I didn’t come back here because I wanted to. I came back to this house because I didn’t know where else to go. Which is weird, considering I have -- how many houses do I own, Friday?”

“More than you can count with both hands, boss,” Friday answers. 

Steve remains quiet. 

“Were you in love with dead-me? At this point in time in your timeline?” Tony asks. Steve doesn’t answer immediately, but the color that rises to the tips of his ears is a dead give away.

“Yes,” Steve croaks, before he clears his throat. He doesn’t supplement the responses with an explanation, opting instead to stare at his hands. 

“It’s good he didn’t know,” Tony points out, the filter between his mouth and thought cast aside. “Can you imagine if he did? After Siberia? Can you imagine if you had been together and then Siberia happens?”

Steve buries his face in his hands, pressing the heels of his palms into his eyelids. “I would never --”

“Don’t.” Tony’s fingers halt over the keys, stopping mid-song. “Don’t say you would never because you never -- well, you never. You didn’t. You don’t know.”

“I’m not exactly someone dead-you would love, Tony.” Steve laughs mirthlessly. “I’m slow, a lousy liar, a lousy friend, a scaredy cat, I occupy people’s time and resources, I make poor decisions and hope for the best. I mean, why would anyone? Most of the time, I’m not even sure of half the things that happens. If I’m being honest, right now, right here with you, keeping you safe, fighting for you to make sure you live, get a real shot at being really happy, not just five years of a happy life, not even just ten years but longer — this is probably one of the few times where I am just… not afraid. I’m really not much, you know? All this looks and body and power came from a tiny bottle. I could care less what happens to me at this point…”

Steve is staring at his hands, shoulders hunched and looking far too small for his a man of his size and power. Tony watches as a tremble travels through Steve’s frame, watches him clench his hands to fists and sighs, gently poking at a piano key. The sound travels through the empty house, echoing through shadowy corridors for no one to be heard but the two of them. It falls flat, too, much like Steve’s candid confession.

“So please don’t tell me that I don’t know. I do know. I don’t deserve someone like Tony Stark. And I’ve made peace with that. I mean, look at me, Tony? Why would he ever want anything to do with someone like me? I’d bore him to tears in a month; I’m a relic. Mister Outdated Ideals. Captain Naive. A  _ liar.” _

“When you put it that way,” Tony scoffs, fanning out the air of dismissal like a ruffled peacock spreading its feathers, when the truth is Tony can’t feel his knees because the words are exactly the kind he’s told himself over a thousand times. “I mean, maybe dead-me is different but I’m pretty sure he would have at least agreed to fuck you. Or get fucked by you. Probably the latter if his sexual preferences is anything like mine.” Steve loses all color on his face. Tony snorts. “Too soon?”

“You don’t know what you’re saying,” Steve sounds breathless.

“Fair enough,” Tony agrees and empties the whiskey glass. He sets is down sharply on the flattened rack, before placing his hands back on the keys. Bohemian Rhapsody fills the space between them, the notes starting off slow. “It’s not a lie, though. Will I get physical with you if given the chance, absolutely. Do I think it can be more? I don’t think so. Not because I wouldn’t want it to be more but more like, why would  _ you?  _ I mean, you’ve met me. Siberia only proved what I always believed.”

Steve visibly flinches at the sentence, like he’s been physically sapped across the face.

“Why would a decent guy like you, ever want someone like me? War profiteer, wealth gained from the backs of innocent people, the deaths of countless soldiers. Arrogant, cruel, callous, communication issues because I clearly wasn’t raised to speak at the level of people but above them. I let my fear govern my decisions, my insecurity cloud my judgment sometimes, most times, maybe all the time.” Tony huffs an amused breath, fingers picking up speed over the black and white keys. “Jesus, when I put it that way, I sure sound like a fucking handful, don’t I?”

Steve turns his head away, shaking his head. Tony doesn’t know if it’s because Steve agrees or disagrees with anything Tony is saying but at this point in time, with everything that’s happening, it probably doesn’t even matter in the long run.

“Now you’re here, and I’m between the two of you. I spent the past several weeks thinking of you. Everything I know about you, and I want to stay mad at you. I want to have nothing to do with you. But then you look at me the way you do, and I just -- I shouldn’t be mad you. I should be mad at Rogers. I want to stay pissed off at your twin. But then he does this,” Tony stops playing abruptly, picking up his phone and projecting the messages he received from Steve’s twin, the e-mail and the painting. “And I can’t even remain mad. I don’t know how. You’re distracting me from my anger and I’m a little miffed about that.” 

Steve is quiet as he stares at the painting, lips tugging up briefly in brief amusement before it presses down to something like a disappointment.

“I’m not looking for forgiveness, Tony. I’m past that,” Steve continues to stare at the painting. “And if Rogers is anything like me, then I can say that he probably hopes to be forgiven one day. In the far, far distant future. It’s what I felt then. But we learn, we change, we adapt. I learned I don’t deserve it. He -- well, he’s changing, I guess. He sent this to you.” 

“You recognize it?” Tony tilts his head up at the painting.

“I painted the same thing as a Christmas present years ago. I never had the courage to send it to you. I never had the balls to even text you, or call you. I guess that makes Rogers the better man out of the two of us.” Steve shakes his head, waving the images away, like he can’t stand the sight of them before him, the idea of his chances slipping through his fingers, a reminder of what a failure he is.

Tony is left sitting there, staring at the night sky beyond the bare tree-lines of the garden, unsure what to feel. What sits on his chest is a vacuum, tightly compressed cacophony of emotions that cancels each other out. A math equation constantly evolving, formulas shifting, no common denominator, nothing exactly remaining constant. When Tony’s heart thumps with nervousness, with nightmarish, guarded fear to keep the softest parts of him intact, arms coming up to cross over his chest in a defensive position, his heart also races at the way Steve looks at him. Like he’s the answer to everything, like he’s Steve’s world, like he’s home, the future that Steve only cares for.

When there should be anger, there is calm.

When there is bitterness, there is understanding, patience and maybe, one day, there may even be forgiveness.

Tony doesn’t know if he’ll ever forgive Steve, if he’ll ever trust him with anything beyond an assignment, beyond the safety of the world, the one common ground that all of them can agree on. 

“I don’t want to be afraid of you, Steve,” Tony murmurs, reaching to rub at his chest. “I’m in the dark here. I don’t know what to do with the both of you, how to deal with this purple grape that is supposed to come destroy half of humanity. I’m tired of thinking, I’m tired of being angry, I’m just…” Tony pushes himself away from the bench, getting unsteadily to his feet and picking up his empty glass. “Why did you pick this timeline? You could have gone back to before Ultron; I would have eaten anything right out of your hand. I would have been easier to manage.”

“I was never looking to  _ manage  _ you, Tony,” Steve answers, a tad bit sharp around the edges. “I didn’t come back here to manipulate you into wanting me back.”

“But why now?” Tony grits out. “It could have been easier, I’m just saying. You actually could have prevented Sokovia.” 

“Because this is where everything hurts the most, this is where everything is the most broken,” Steve snaps, standing up from the bench and spreading his arms. “This is where you and I went to shit and going back to change this is cheating. It isn’t right.”

“God, you’re a fucking boy scout through and through, aren’t you?” Tony throws his hands up in the air. “It was a hypothetical question, calm the fuck down.”

“It was an emotional response to losing you,” Steve admits, clearing his throat. “I admit, I didn’t think this through. I mean, your funeral just happened…” 

“Well, maybe you should just go then.” Tony offers, shrugging as he turns for the kitchen. 

“Do you want me to?” Steve asks.

And it comes out so small, so pitifully heartbroken, shattered around the edges because Steve clearly doesn’t want to leave.

Tony doesn’t turn to look at him.

He also doesn’t give Steve an answer.

*

The truth is, Tony doesn’t want Steve of the future gone.

If only because his little world doesn’t feel too small aymore, with this Steve hanging around like a small candle in the dark. 

 

*

  
Tony doesn’t ask Steve to leave.

But Tony provides him with an armor, weeks later, much like the ones he’s made for Pepper. It’s all black with a white arc reactor in the middle, lined with blue. It’s sleek, it’s powerful, it’s got firepower, the nanites fluid enough that Steve can move as freely as he did in his old Captain America costume from the forties. 

Steve crumples when he puts it on. Steve weeps for hours after. 

It’s hard, being angry at an anguished man like Steve.

It gets harder to hold on to resentment, too.

 

*  
  


Talking to Steve gets easier after New Year's. They text more frequently, share links to videos, recipes, funny television ads - just like before.

Sometimes, if Tony closes his eyes, he can almost convince himself that Steve never left. That he isn't going to, sooner or later.  
  


*

It happens one rainy spring afternoon, in the middle of London. 

Tony is talking to Steve one moment on their way to a meeting, and the next there is something big, powerful, bright and loud crashing on to the right side of the car. Tony jerks backwards, forwards, sideways, is showered with glass, bent metal and a force that leaves him reeling and broken. He spins for what feels like forever, over and over again, rain water, asphalt, screams, all wrapping around him like a tornado. 

 

And the only thing in his mind, as he reaches somewhere to his left where he touches nothing, is _SteveSteveSteve._

 

TBC  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Filler. This is what I would call this chapter.
> 
> Also, IRL hit me hard. It's been a tough few weeks at work and while I had time after, I was too tired to write let alone be creative. Working for the government can sometimes suck your creativity dry.
> 
> This chapter is a little lazy and sloppy but point is made. I'm just glad I wrote something.
> 
> Thank you for reading!
> 
> Feel free to hit me up at at tumblr (pinkcatharsis) or Discord (pandashi#7565) :D


	6. 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Self beta'd. Will always edit/fix as I reread/revisit.
> 
> I have started labelling who is who when it comes to Steve as it is confusing for readers.
> 
> Future Steve is the Steve after Endgame  
> Present Steve is the Steve post Civil War i.e. this Tony’s real Steve.
> 
> Hope that helps. I will go back and add these to the rest of the chapters.

**Future Steve (Endgame)**

For a moment, Steve thinks he is drifting in space.

The car tumbles over and over, the drab city lighting swirling like catherine-wheels, before it collides with a bricked wall, coming to a jerking stop, a shower of glass glinting in the dark like scattered diamonds on leather and metal. The ringing in Steve’s ears comes from somewhere, deafening, echoing, a cacophony of noise and chaos like the wild, uncontrolled spin of their vehicle -- partially the screech of yielding metal, partially from his throat when the syllables of Tony’s name rolls past his tongue. 

Then silence.

Steve is fleetingly aware of the taste of blood in his mouth, the hot, syrupy weight over his eyelids, the heavy ache that throbs through out the length of his body. He is crumpled to the side, shards of glass embedded into his arms and legs, distanced from reality as he blinks his way through the haze. It starts with the sound of the rain, a rushing noise that replaces the silence, the standstill of the world around him as he tries to move, fingers reaching out and wrapping around mangled leather and upholstery, flesh slicing open when he touches glass. The pain is secondary, as Steve blinks through the glare of the xenon headlights. All around him, air bags swell, filled with ear, splattered in crimson. Steve opens his mouth to speak, nothing but garbled noises reaching his ears.

Until his eyes fixates on the body next to him.

Tony lies slumped in his seat, the white dress shirt dyed into a deep, frightening shade of crimson. What was once a door is now disfigured, scrunched, folded inwards, forcing Tony’s  right leg to bend sideways in an unnatural angle. Tony’s hands lie limp on his side, bloodied, littered with lacerations, bathed in lurid red, the edges of his flesh hand glinting with the razor sharp edges of the shattered glass.

Steve’s lungs folds inwards, collapses to the asphalt, sinks right into the core of the earth. Then the strength comes from somewhere, a sudden surge of power, like an exploding star.

The ringing in Steve’s ears goes louder, reaching a deafening pitch, as his hands _pushes_ against metal and glass, shoves his mangled door aside, forcing it to open, to yield under his command. The mangled metal topples on asphalt,  just as the sudden heady stench of gas fills Steve’s shriveling lungs.

Steve’s pushes himself out of the car, scrambling on top of the dilapidated roof. He grabs the loosened edges of the shattered glass of the sunroof, his body _roaring_ with adrenaline as he _tears_ it off — it flies, somewhere across the wet asphalt, cutting through the sheets of rain. 

Tony doesn’t move when Steve pulls him out. He doesn’t stir in Steve’s arms when Steve hauls him out of what would be — could be— oh god, _ohgod —_ Tony’s metal coffin. 

Steve makes it a few feet away from the wreckage, settles Tony down on the asphalt, against the an old brick wall, a safe distance from the leaking gas before he returns to check on their driver. Steve doesn’t make it more than a few feet before the car explodes, the car igniting into a yellow ball of flame, billowing outwards, the shock-wave shattering nearby glass windows. 

The noise reverberates through the dreary downpour like a thunderclap. It sends Steve flying backwards, on his back, skidding against rainwater and concrete as he stares helplessly at the car that burns as bright as the sun. A moment passes, where regret tastes as bitter as the tang of copper in Steve’s mouth, where he mourns for the loss of life, now roasting in the car seat, turning to ash, dissolving in the rain.

Steve crawls away from the fire, as the distant sirens somehow reaches his ears. He slips and skids his knees, tears expensive fabric in his clumsy rush to get to Tony’s side, where he stares at Tony lying against the wall, as white as paper, half of him bloodied, or maybe it’s ash. Or maybe he’s leaning against the broken pieces of fallen space ships, or maybe the crimson on his face is skin cooked, roasted by the power of the infinity stones.

London blurs to a burning battlefield, the buildings turning to ash, the pavement to a litter of dead alien bodies. 

Steve can’t blink the sight away, can’t distinguish between his old reality and his currently reality. 

It didn’t matter, all of a sudden -- this present that is the past but also his future. 

None of it mattered as the life continues to leave Tony. 

Steve falls to his knees, cups Tony’s face in his palms, his eyes burning as he shakes wipes away the blood and rain from Tony’s face, leaves skid marks of red on soft, _oh god_ , soft skin. Steve holds trembling hands over Tony’s nose, looks at the mess of his body, the gleam of the embedded glass, the sound of the sirens getting louder, and louder, when all Steve can think of is please, please _, pleasepleasepleasedon’tdiehere_ \--!

Tony stirs, a barely perceptible movement, eyelids fluttering open, as he chokes on a breath, a stream of red bubbling out of cracked lips, sticky and hot. Tony’s eyes are glazed, unfocused, as it struggles to stay open, Tony’s throat working around a breath he cannot fully take.

“S-Steve…” Tony _chokes_ , soft, weak, death looming over him like a shadow.

Steve begs him, words rolling past his lips in an uncontrollable mess, as he shakes his head at Tony, tells him that help is on the way, that Friday has sent out the request the moment their car got hit, that it’ll be okay, _pleasepleasedon’t, pleasepleaseholdon, pleasepleasedon’tgoyet_!

Tony stares at him, seeing and unseeing, the corner of his lips quirking up in what would have been a smile, but doesn’t truly form.

It hits Steve then, how painful, how brutal, how so goddamn _brave_ it must have been for Pepper to tell Tony that they’ll be okay. That he can rest.

Steve realizes, in that very moment, how he truly isn’t brave, how he can’t even form simple words like _it’s going to be okay,_ or _you’re going to be okay,_ or _I’ll make sure you’ll be okay_. How his mouth cannot form words that are bigger than himself, because he’s selfish, he’s not ready, maybe he’ll never be ready. A big part of Steve shatters into a million pieces, right there on the cold, wet side walk, as he begs Tony to keep his eyes open, blubbers out syllables as he shakes his head, brushes fingers over Tony’s cheeks, traces the crows feet around the corners of Tony’s eyes, as long, dark lashes flutter under his touch.

But Tony doesn’t listen to him beg, closes his eyes instead as the flash of red and blue illuminates the dreary sidewalk.

 

*

 

They ask Steve a lot of questions. Take his blood pressure. Check for concussion.

They examine him, separate him from Tony who is wheeled into the emergency operating theatre for immediate treatment.

They strip him out of his suit, makes sure he’s okay, when Steve’s wounds aren’t really dangerous on the outside as they are on the inside. They try to take the device of his ear, but Steve grabs the nurse’s wrist in a vice, fixing her with a stern look. They don’t bother with the ear piece after that. 

But they ask Robert Evans for identification, followed by a lot of questions about the incident. Steve answers to the best of his ability until Pepper intervenes. Until lawyers from Stark Industries London branch make their way to the hospital, tousled and harried.

Steve gets pushed aside to a small recovery bed; the nurses probably think he’s just another petrified employee, terrified of losing his job after what looks like a monumental fuck up. 

Body guards are supposed to protect their clients, after all.

  
*  


Three hours go by.

Tony doesn’t come out of surgery.

  
*

Steve sits on a chair that is too small for a man his size, listening to the lawyers who are currently sharing the information they have, staring instead at the grain of the linoleum, how the gleam of the overhead halogen lights reflects on the disinfected gray floors, watching white sneakers and comfortable shoes, hems of the blue scrubs walk by, casting brief, dancing shadows. They’ve been instructed by Pepper to share information. Steve doesn’t look at them, barely says a word, too. He is unapologetic about it,

They tell him that it’s an accident. 

The delivery truck driver had fallen asleep on the wheel. Too many long hours working, hustling, trying to make ends meet.

The poor guy is currently under custody with the police apparently, freaking out, in sheer panic. He didn’t mean to. He didn’t even know _who_ had been in the car he hit.   


*  


The reality sinks in five hours later, when Steve jerks to his feet like a released coiled spring, as Tony is wheeled out of the theater. Steve’s gaze follows the gurney, that disappears behind another door towards the recovery room. 

The doctor tells him he’ll be fine. Says a million things about soft tissue injuries, broken ribs, fractured leg, fractured arm, lacerations -- she says that he’s _lucky_ , considering the angle of collision crash.

Steve stares mutely at her, tries to take what she’s saying with a little grain of salt. When all he wants to do is yell, grab her by the arms and shake her, ask her how can she call that _lucky_ , Tony could have died, don’t you understand, don’t you get how valuable he is to earth’s future?

But Steve nods numbly, asks if he can go see him, if he can stay by him.

He gets little to almost no resistance from the doctors and lawyers.

  


*

 

Steve is left staring at a small patch of skin on Tony’s limp hand, right under where the cannula is inserted, his heart hammering under his rib cage. He listens to the slow, steady hiss of the oxygen mask, the  numerous monitors connected to even more numerous wires that hang off Tony’s unmoving frame like Christmas ornaments. On the table is a bottle of water and the rest of Tony’s belongings that had been in his pockets, all within a sealed bag, stained red -- cellphone, wallet, a few candies, cards.

From a distance, under the loud thrum of Steve’s heart, he listens of sound of comfortable running shoes squeak against the linoleum floor, the rattle of gurney wheels moving to and fro; the faraway sound of the vending machine dispensing a beverage; the fall and rattle of a can. He hears someone crying, a touch of hysteria in the grieving sound that comes out choked -- someone must have not made it, or maybe they just heard the bad news. 

On the bed, Tony’s head is turned a little to the left, lips slightly parted under the oxygen mask that mists with each exhale. He does not look like his usual self, his hair stuck to his scalp in wavy clumps, greasy from the hasty wipe down in the operating room. He is sickly, yellowish tint to his skin, small, weak -- like that time he had stumbled out of a spaceship, where his eyes were bloodshot, the skin under his lids almost purple in shade. Tony couldn’t even take two steady steps then, would have fallen on the ground if Steve hadn’t kept him upright. Steve remembers the feel of bones under the flight suit, how sharp they had been under skin.

Tony doesn’t look any better now.

Steve isn’t able to make a decision on which instance Tony had looked the worst.

The loud, insistent buzzing cuts through the room, jerking Steve out of his stupor. He fumbles for the phone in his pocket, fingers clumsy as he swiped to answer the call without really registering who is on the other side.

“What the hell is going on?” Rogers asks, voice hard like steel, curt, commanding. 

(Angry.)

Steve opens his mouth to answer, just as the image of Tony’s last few moments, right before he had taken his last breath, charred, broken, defeated, _tired_ \-- _oh god_ , _ohgod_ \-- flashes in his mind. 

Something tears past Steve’s throat then, garbled and choked. It’s an inhale and exhale all at once, a hand coming up to his mouth as he manages to say the word ‘accident’ somewhere in the sound burst of his fear. Because the truth of it all sinks in, that it’s not going to matter how many times Steve jumps back in time, which moment in his shared history with Tony he picks to return to. 

Tony didn’t have to die in a glorious battle, the fight of their lives, against a threat so great, it’s name is whispered across galaxies with a terrifying shudder. 

Tony could die now, here, in this very moment, his body failing him because of age, circumstances and all the beatings it has taken in the past decade alone.

The truth of it sinks deep, shredding flesh, bone and the softness parts of Steve to pieces. It tears muscle, power and bulk down, leaving Steve curled into himself on the seat that is far too small for a man his size, his hand pressing into his mouth to stifle the breakdown that could not have picked a better time to come out than now.

Having the serum didn’t matter. 

Being Captain America didn’t matter. 

Not the shield. Not the power under his fists.

Nothing.

Steve isn’t going to win anything. 

Steve is always going to lose Tony, one way or the other.

  
*

 

Steve isn’t sure who hangs up first. If it’s Rogers, or if it’s him.   


*

Rhodey is the first to arrive, along with Vision. They stand there in silence, staring at the broken body on the bed, before Rhodey turns and hisses a curse under his breath, dropping himself on a chair in the corner of the room. 

Vision remains standing, dressed in civilian slacks, his usually purple skin and golden eyes now replaced by blue irises, dusky blond hair and the sharp features of an English gentleman. Steve remembers this get-up, remembers catching glimpses of it in Wanda’s phone when she thought no one could see. She had been so happy then, looking fondly at pictures.

God, it all felt like a ten lifetimes ago.

“I’m sorry,” Steve whispers, but the impact of his apology is lost when Rhodey shakes his head.

“Don’t worry about it, man,” He sighs. “Tony’s a tough guy. He’s been through worse than this. He’s going to pull through. Stubborn ass, this one,”

Steve shakes his head again, because Rhodey doesn’t understand. Tony clearly made a conscious choice to not let Rhodey or anyone else know of who he may have been hiding in one his lofts; now, sitting before Rhodey like this, Steve doesn’t think he could muster up enough energy to continue this lie. He didn’t have it in him to even pretend, or hide how unforgivably regretful he is that this all happened. Steve brings up a shaking hand as he tugs the grimy, blood crusted earpiece off. The hologram cover distorts and comes off like a veil dropping to the ground. 

The reaction this time, doesn’t disappoint.

Rhodey is on his feet, his eyes wide, jaw slack with surprise. “Cap…”

Vision straightens, a frown on his face as he tilts his head in confusion. “Captain…”

“I’m sorry,” Steve says again, swallowing thickly and shaking his head. “I’m so, _so_ sorry.”  


*  


The surprise eventually wears off.

Vision doesn’t say a word, but Rhodey’s quiet stare speaks louder than anything else. Rhodey doesn’t ask any questions, doesn’t give voice to the thoughts swirling behind his studious and piercingly assessing gaze.

Steve takes it like a man being shot at by a firing squad.

“There’s a reason I’m here…” Steve offers.  
  
“I’m sure,” Rhodey responds, not unkindly. 

“It’s better explained when Tony is -- when he’s around and lucid.” Steve turns to look at Tony’s sleeping face, throat constricting once more.

“Isn’t it always…” Rhodey murmurs, sighing deeply and shaking his head. “It’s still good to see you, Cap.”

Steve tries very hard to not to flinch at the god-awful title.

He fails.

  
*

Steve’s phone rings insistently some four hours later once more while he’s waiting for coffee to dispense from the vending machine. Steve stares at the familiar number, a tremor going through his hand as he abandons the coffee and heads for the emergency stairwell. The ringing doesn’t stop, stopping for only two flat seconds before ringing again.

Steve doesn’t want to answer his twin, doesn’t want to have to justify his failure, his realization that there’s no winning against fate to Rogers, who will undoubtedly ask him for more details now that Steve is calmer, considering how wonderfully well the first phone call went. Rogers will ask: what happened?

Which really means, where were you, how could you not see this happening.

Steve braces a hand on the cold railing, throat constricting as the humidity in the stairwell makes the sweat break on his forehead, his exposed forearms. It makes the blood in his veins race, heat building in his core, his ears burning hot in shame and his eyes sting.

Steve’s thumb swipes to answer, as he silently brings the phone to ear.

“Any updates?” Rogers asks, voice tight, clipped, a crackle in the fire that is roaring sky high.

There is something visceral in the delivery of the question. Something thick that wraps around Steve’s throat like thick, hot, smoldering bands of iron. Steve knows that it is fear that fuels Rogers’ rage, a hot burning anger that seeks to demand, command and harm. It is a biological reaction, no doubt something that comes from seeing the breaking news that’s been all over the international media, a primitive part of the brain activated into overdrive to produce aggression. It’s all there in the syllables of Rogers’ question, how the suppressed rage that is burning hotter than the sun’s surface, how it corrupts his sense of community into one of suspicions. 

“He’s in recovery. The doctors says he’ll be all right,” Steve manages. It’s a feat that his voice doesn’t shake, when every part of him is.

“What the _hell_ happened, Rogers?” Rogers asks, voice icy. 

“An accident. The truck driver was -- he fell asleep behind the wheel and we -- we were in a corner, he didn’t see the light -- and we just -- Tony was on the side of the impact and -- _oh god_ \--”

Steve clamps a hand over his mouth, pulling the phone away from his ear and drops himself on the steps, gritting his teeth to silence the roiling nauseous guilt that is trying to tear its way past Steve’s mouth. He can almost taste it, that hideous coppery bitterness, how the wounds had smelled like, all that blood oozing out of Tony’s body, how he had stared at Steve, lips slack in a weak, fading smile. Steve shakes his head viciously, pounds a fist against his knee, willing the image away because he needs to relay the information right this time. He needs to get his shit together, because Tony is sleeping, resting, he’ll be okay, he’s made it through the worst of it all. Steve counts till five before dropping his hand away from his mouth, blinking the salty blurriness away from his eyes as he focuses on a spot on the wall in front of him.

Steve brings the phone back to his ear, listens to the controlled breaths his twin is taking on the other end; Rogers is terrified. 

“I didn’t know it was going to happen,” Steve says slowly. It comes out sounding like an excuse. Steve realizes there’s nothing he can say that can change that. “I didn’t. Know.”

“Okay,” Rogers answers hoarsely, as he sucks in another deep, shuddering breath that is followed by a softer, defeated, “Okay…”

“I’m sorry…” Steve apologizes, because apparently, apologizing is all he can do.

“It’s not your fault,” Rogers answers. They don’t come across as empty words, because it really isn’t Steve’s fault. Steve didn’t plan for a man to fall asleep on the wheel to crash into their vehicle. “I mean, did this happen back in your…?”

“No…” Steve admits. “A lot of things are happening that aren’t -- it didn’t happen in my timeline. I -- I’m not sure I can be of much help anymore.”

Steve knows no one is blaming him for it. Certainly not his twin, whose rage has been suffocated with reason, trapped in a vacuum, leaving behind nothing but exhausted, dying embers. Steve is just unsure on how to convince himself that it really isn’t his fault. 

“Well…” Rogers starts slowly, “Between the two of us, I think we can do plenty. If we wanted to. If we tried harder. Wouldn’t you say so?”

Steve doesn’t really answer. After all, neither of them had a positive track record when it comes to handling Tony Stark.

*

Tony wakes up the next day, sometime during lunch time, groaning and whining like an infant demanding attention. He babbles as the doctors do their checks, fakes falling asleep when doctors tries to tell him how lucky he is, and then proceeds to slur at Rhodey how he is really craving a cheeseburger. 

Steve stands there, watching all this wanting nothing more than to just collapse with relief.

 

*  


Steve ends up standing in line for said burgers at Mother Flipper, the closest if not one of the best in the area; Steve gets one of everything on the menu and then braves the London lunch hour traffic. When he returns to the hospital, it is with a large bag of burgers that he has no chance of hiding from any health professional. Steve does his best to pretend that he isn’t cowed by the questioning and disapproving looks at the nurses’ station throws in his direction when he walks past. Steve tries not to bristle, keeps his chin up, hoping that no one would fault him for just following his boss’s orders.

They had moved Tony to a more private, bigger room, with Vision sitting himself by the door, ankle propped on a knee as he reads a book. Tony is reclined on the bed, eyes on a tablet 

“I don't pay your salary to tattle, Robert,” Tony says from the bed. It’s said with all the theatrical flourish that is expected of Tony Stark. Tony’s voice, much to Steve’s slight relief, is at least steady, even if it is a little raspy around the edges from the breathing tube they had to shove down his throat, earlier.  

“Sorry, boss, but I felt it was necessary given that Colonel Rhodes is your… family…” Steve answers without much of an aplomb, pretending that the look Tony is giving him now, the one that is safe guarding something too vulnerable, isn’t being directed at him with all the subtlety of a bright twenty-thousand watt light bulb. Steve doesn’t meet Tony’s eyes as he holds up the paper bag of burgers that has no business being present in a recovery room.

“Forgiven. See, pumpkin, now that is a friend,” Tony takes hold of the paper-bag, pulls it open and stills. 

It’s immediate, how the nausea slams right into Tony. Tony pushes the paper-bag aside, frowning, color draining from his face.

“Too soon, buddy, too soon,” Rhodey plucks the bag off Tony’s lap, relocates to the other end of the room and helps himself to the contents. “Although, don’t mind if I do.”

“You can’t eat that in front of me,” Tony protests weakly.

“Watch me, asshole,” Rhodey responds and takes a big bite from the burger he unwraps, punctuates the bite with appreciating approval noises, nodding. “Oh, wow, this is so good, thanks, _Robert_ . At least you’re an honest employee, unlike your boss here, who didn’t think it’d be _smart_ to trust certain _information_ to his _friends_ . Especially when information is _critical_ given our current _political climate_.”

Steve flinches visibly. He can hear the words that are not being said loud and clear. “I’m sure he meant no harm…”

“Please don’t help me,” Tony answers, eye rolling as he cranes his head back against the pillow. “The situation is not exactly easy to explain, you know? I mean, I’m having a hard time wrapping my head around _him_.”

“Because he chose to come back for you?” Vision gently offers.

Tony doesn’t answer.

“I am gonna be optimistic about all this, I’m going to try real hard here, and say that it can’t be that bad,” Rhodey says.

Tony throws Steve a pointed look; this time, Steve shrinks just the tiniest bit.  

 

*

  
A little after midnight, Steve jerks awake when a tall, hooded figure quietly steps into the room,  holding three red balloons in one hand, and a teddy bear tucked under an arm. Steve is on his feet, putting himself between Tony and the stranger. His sudden movement startles Rhodey awake, who is also on his feet because as far as any of them is concerned, visiting hours is over.

The teddy bear drops to the ground with a squeaky bounce, the sound of it cutting through the pin drop silence of the room as the stranger brings a finger up to his lips in a be-quiet gesture. Vision stands behind him, the gem on his forehead starting to flow, ready to fire, when finger reaches up for the hood and tugs it down.

Rogers stands there, looking a little out of place in his hoodie, sweatpants, and sneakers, awkwardly holding the balloons as he gaze fixates on Tony’s sleeping figure.

“What... the fuck....” Rhodey isn’t looking at Tony, or Rogers. He’s looking right at Steve. 

Steve pulls the earpiece off, the holographic disguise peeling off his face as he holds a hand up. “I can explain…”

  
*

**Present Steve (Civil War)**

Steve remains eerily still by the foot of Tony’s bed, watching the man’s chest rise and fall with each slow breath he takes. The oxygen tube tucked under his nose makes him look far more vulnerable, fraying around the edges, like the bruises that peppers his skin in lurid yellows, purples and blues. A part of Steve’s chest constricts at the sight because this isn’t supposed to happen. Tony is the guy who had contingency plans for contingency plans. He’s the guy who can foresee emergencies, had a plan from A to Z, back up for the back up -- yet here he is, taken down by a car accident.

Steve tries not to let that hit him too hard. He tries to tell himself that Tony is a tough guy, that even without his Ironman suit, the soft, vulnerable, very much only a man under all the iron is still a force to be reckoned with. This is the same guy who had survived months under the Ten Rings hold, beat the heat of the desert with a heart so close to failure, all while wired to a car battery. This is the man who flew a nuke into space, whose first instinct is to fight and defend, neutralize a threat of terrorists, super soldiers or anyone who tries to harm innocents, with or without a suit. This is the same guy who isn’t afraid to leap over a two-story high railing to stop a flying Iron Legion suit with a screwdriver, the same guy doesn’t cower before gods who lifts him off his feet to strangle him, or throw him out the window. Tony had to be the bravest man alive.

And yet here he is, looking so small.

The metal of the foot-board folds under Steve’s tight grip, metal squeaking and making the purposely hushed conversation between his twin and Rhodey come to a halt.

“Sorry,” Steve answers, releasing his sweating palms and wiping it on his sweatpants. He proceeds to carefully tie the balloon strings around the foot of Tony’s bed. “I just -- I wanted to see for myself. I’ll -- I’ll go --”

The words die when Tony stirs slowly, blinking awake at the sound of Steve’s voice, half lidded gaze resting over Steve’s towering figure. 

There is bewilderment there, a pause far too long. It’s as if Tony is trying to figure out if he’s hallucinating the sight before him, doubting Steve’s presence. For a heartbeat, Tony’s lips parts, his breath stuttering, a show of weakness that sparks something raw in Steve’s gut. It’s a flare so small, folding inwards with the sudden, short inhale Steve takes in; only to ignite and expand to something white hot when Steve shudders a quiet exhale, a star forming in the deep dark of space that’s been a constant in Steve’s chest since he rose from the ice -- Steve can’t ignore it, this presence of a white dwarf star in his universe, brighter than Sirius. And in the center of all that light, is the man before him.  
  
There is an urge so basic, so primal it its existence, to reach out and brush his fingers over the horrid bruise blooming on one side of Tony’s face.

Steve blinks at the urge, _tearing_ his gaze away from Tony, the man that has been the sole occupant of his mind since they had parted ways in Siberia. 

(He doesn’t trust himself to look on so more. Better to look away before he succumbs to the urge to actually reach out and touch something that he had no right to.)

“S-Steve?” Tony croaks.

(To hear his name like that, not weighed down by bitterness, animosity or betrayed hurt, it almost makes him cry. Because this is unguarded, this is real, and after everything he’s done, the lie, Tony can still say his name like that. Can still make the syllables of it sound like he trusts him.)

“Hey, Tony,” Steve murmurs, clearing his throat, as heat rises over his cheeks.

“You came…” Tony murmurs, still sounding like he’s not believing what he’s seeing. 

“Yes, I -- I was nearby and heard what happened on the news and I -- well, I had to come past visiting hours but I -- I mean… I won’t be here long. I don't want to cause more trouble than I probably already did.” Steve gestures at the bend metal of the foot-board and the studious look Rhodey is directing at him.

That look darkens the flush over his cheeks. Steve sniffs a little, rubbing the back of his head and quietly places the teddy bear on the foot of the bed. 

A long pause settles over the room. Steve keeps his gaze away from his twin from the future, Vision and Rhodey. He didn’t have to _look_ at them to know how they’re _staring_ at him.

“Seriously?” Tony is quirking a bemused eyebrow.

“Soft toys does a good job of disarming nurses or anyone who may be watching…” Steve counters, straightening his back, standing on parade rest without really intending too.

“Okay, Steve…” Tony chuckles. It trails off with a sigh 

“Can anyone explain to me why I’m seeing double or should I visit an ophthalmologist? I am at a hospital, after all; might as well.” Rhodey 

“Patient. Resting. Oh my god, everything hurts, I’m in pain, passing out.” Tony keeps his eyes closed, his head turned away. 

“If it’s all the same,” Rogers speaks up suddenly, as he reaches up to activate the holographic disguise from his ear piece. “If we can find a quiet corner, away from ears, I’m willing to talk, Colonel Rhodes.”

“Right.” Rhodey doesn’t sound so sure. 

“I’ve got this,” Steve pulls out the EMP-scrambler Shuri had given almost a year ago. “Should be enough cover.” 

“The room next door is empty. I’ll stay here,” Vision offers.

Steve tugs the hood back on, his gaze trailing over Tony who is pointedly staring at the window, lips tightly shut, a frown etched between his brows. Steve wants to say something, wants to tell him it’ll all be okay.

As always, Steve gives no voice to urge inside him to comfort, strangling the soft whisper to silence.

 _It’s not my place_ , he thinks. _I’ve got no right._

  
*

Steve leans against the far wall, his shoulder blades against the cold rubber paint coating as he listens to his twin narrate the events of his world. He keeps his focus on Rhodey, watches as Rhodey’s face remains unreadable, perfectly controlled for a man of his military station. He nods here and there, his frown growing deeper with each passing minute.

When Rogers concludes his explanation of his origin and purpose, Rhodey remains still and 

“I don’t have any information to base time travel _on_ . So what you’re saying, is that the only future _you’re_ changing, by being present here, is _his._ ” Rhodey jerks a thumb in Steve’s direction. “ _Our_ Steve, _our_ Tony, _us_ ,” Rhodey’s gestures emphasizes on just who the ‘us’ is in the room. “That you’re not actually changing anything in _your_ world, because that Tony - _your_ Tony, is _dead_.”

“Yes.” The curve of Roger’s Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows, just as Steve himself flinches at the statement. “Yes…”

“Jesus…” Rhodey holds a hand up, making his way towards the chair, dropping heavily. “Count on Tony to figure out time travel.” 

“Are you surprised?” Steve quips, a thread of amusement lilting in his tone.

“What I’m surprised at, right now, is you being here. What’s with that, man?” Rhodey asks, turning his attention towards Steve, which makes him straighten up from the wall, preparing himself for an argument. His defensiveness and hackles must have shown on his face because Rhodey brings a hand up in a placating gesture again. “Help me understand. Tony came back from Siberia in bad shape and you and the rest of the team were gone. And I’m not just talking physically here. I’m talking Afghanistan level of fuck-up. He won’t talk about it, but I know you fought. And that was a fight Tony was _never_ prepared for. Mister maker of contingency plans _for_ contingency plans didn’t have any when it came to fighting you. What happened? Why are you here? You’re a wanted criminal. Hell, you both are, but at least he’s got the world fooled.” Rhodey tips his chin at Rogers, who seems to be shrinking into himself.

Steve’s stomach flips and drops down to the core of the earth, as he looks away and presses his lips down to a tight line, bitter regret rising up like bile to his throat. Steve can hear it, the unspoken, _Tony didn’t prepare for it because he didn’t foresee it. Because Tony trusted you, believed in you, didn’t dream of a day where you’d exchange fists._

Rogers probably hears it too.

“He didn’t say anything at all? About what I did?” Steve asks, soft, ashamed.

“He found Barnes. That is the _only_ thing Tony said to me. In those exact words.” Rhodey shrugs, helpless, confused. “I figured you and the rest were in hiding, apprehending terrorist because hey, you’re doing the military a favor. But you’re here now, you met with Tony in Turkey, you’re believing him. I’m asking you what happened because there was no need for any of you to be gone in the first place. There was no need for a fight, maybe, I think. I don’t know. Help me understand because I hear him, plan and all to stop this… Thanos.” Rhodey points at Rogers. “But I haven’t heard from you.”

Steve parts his lips to respond, to give voice to the little, skinny guy in Brooklyn that lies under the bulk of his current body, the guy that had wanted nothing more than to do the right thing. The very guy who can’t wash off the blood from his hands, his gloves, the one who can’t stop hearing the sound of metal yielding under his shield. The guy who had stared in horror, while picking up dinner from a little hole-in-the-wall eatery in Andorra, as breaking news coverage showed Tony’s picture and what looked like a car wreckage in Catalan. Steve didn’t understand a word, didn’t understand until he had gone back to the little shack of a house he, Natasha, Sam and Wanda had found for the week, only to see the ashen look on their faces.

Steve remembers sinking down on a chair, his knees numb, a quake going through his body. And then right after that, a rage that makes him stand back up, stomp right back out to into cold, early spring evening breeze, teeth chattering as he tries to get a hold of Rogers. He remembers how the rage just fizzled out, a spark dying to nothing but ash that blows away with the still frigid breeze of early spring, how he listened to Rogers have a melt down, consumed by guilt, while he just stood there, miles away, staring at shadows of mountain tops in the distance, helpless, pathetic, _useless_.

From his left, Rogers steps forward to speak, no doubt aware of the turbulent swirl of thoughts. Steve puts his hands up, giving him a look to _not_ say anything, to not help him, to not justify his behavior with what he, Rogers of the future, had gone through in his time. 

“I did find Bucky,” Steve confirms, “and up to that point, we were on agreement to neutralize the greater threat. But Zemo -- he played us. His mission wasn’t to unleash the rest of Hydra’s super soldiers, it was to make us fight.” Steve pauses and licks his dry lips. “What do you know about Howard and Maria’s deaths?”

“Car accident,” Rhodey answers, quick, factual. 

“It’s wasn’t.” Steve sucks in a deep breath, holds it for a moment, before exhaling slowly, his heart refusing to calm it’s frantic drum under his ribcage. “The Winter Soldier was tasked with their assassination. Zemo played a video, footage the night it happened. Howard and Maria didn’t die upon impact. They were still alive. Bucky -- “ Steve pauses, shaking his head. “The Winter Soldier killed them, made it look like an accident.”

Rhodey is quiet, eyes wide as realization and understanding dawns in gaze.

“Tony saw that, reacted. I stopped him, and -- “ Steve stops. 

No. 

That’s not right. 

It’s not right.

That isn’t why Tony reacted.

He thinks back to that very moment, how Tony had turned to face Bucky, how he had stepped forward to maybe, at most, probably, grab him by the neck, the shoulder, maybe deck him across the jaw or right in the middle of his face. Steve closes his eyes and goes back to that moment where everything collapsed to the ground. The Ironman suit had not powered up. It had been silent, hushed, like Tony’s lack of breath in his lungs. No whines for the repulsors or jets powering up. Nothing.

No.

Tony lost it when he found out Steve _lied_.

It wasn’t Bucky.

It was _Steve_.

“It was my fault,” Steve says slowly, staring up at Rhodes wide eyed. He’s always known that their fall out was mostly caused by him, or rather, he had a big hand in it too. But the epiphany that hits him now, it’s a punch to the gut. 

“Of course it is, we beat him to the fucking ground and _left_ him there; were you honestly thinking _otherwise?_ ” Rogers sounds accusatory, disbelieving, like Steve is the world’s most deluded idiot.

“What the hell are you two on about? You _left_ him?” Rhodey looks between the two of them, confused, torn between being

“No, no, _think_ about it, Rogers. After that video that played, after it had gone black, Tony didn’t _move_ . And when he did, when he tried to go after Bucky the _first time_ , when we stopped him, when I stopped him -- the suit. His suit wasn’t powering up. Rogers, he had no intention to really kill or incapacitate or otherwise maybe fully harm Bucky. Because Bucky wasn’t even moving, he wasn’t even denying the accusation. He would have stood there and taken whatever beating Tony would have dished out! Which he had every right to! Think! The suit only powered up when he found out that we -- _that I lied_ !”  Steve is breathing hard, panic all over his face. Rogers seems to be staring at him like he’s seeing him, an image of himself for the first time. "That was our fault. My fault. I did that. I started it! It wasn't Bucky! It was _me_! I admitted to the lie that -- that ruined everything!" 

Steve isn't aware how his voice had gone up a notch.

“Rhodes,” Steve looks at the man who has long lost all color on his face, pallor ashy and disgust curling around the corner of his lip, tearing his gaze away from his twin who looks utterly sick with himself. “A little over a year ago, before everything, just before Triskelion incident, Natasha and I stumbled upon intel that confirmed that Maria and Howard’s death was the Winter Soldier’s mission. I knew. I have known for a long time. I didn’t tell Tony and he found out that day, in Siberia. He was angry at Bucky, but he lost it when he realized that I’ve been -- that I -- I didn’t ---”

Steve can’t continue, not without stuttering like a fearful school boy. He can see the flicker of rage, as bright as the sun, glowing in Rhodey’s gaze, how his body has gone ramrod straight, tension pulling his jaw taut. Beside him, Rogers is staring at the floor, like this information is new to him, like he’s never processed this part of it all in this particular angle. Steve knows that the both of them have long come to terms that whatever had happened in Siberia, politics aside, they both made the personal choice to stand their ground. It had been their hands that struck back, that made sure that Tony couldn’t fight anymore. 

It had been their choice to leave the shield behind.

Rhodey nods after a long pause, lips pressing to a tight line. Steve isn’t sure if he should be grateful that Rhodey isn’t beating down on a dead horse, or if he should feel worse at the fact that Rhodey thinks he, Steve Rogers, is beyond reason about this.

“So what’s your plan?” Rhodey asks, the syllables a little unsteady, a whisper of suppressed rage.

“If this threat is coming, then I’m staying close and making sure we got enough manpower to tackle this guy and his army.” This part, at least, Steve is sure and unbending about. This part, he doesn’t shudder with his words. He isn’t afraid about an army from space coming in, isn’t afraid about this Tyrant that apparently everyone is so goddamn scared of. 

“And after that?” Rhodey pointedly ask. “Assuming, we’re all alive and he manages to actually succeed in his mission.”

The answer comes out surprisingly easy.

“If we win?” Steve looks up, holding Rhodey’s gaze and for the first time since Siberia, the breath he takes is full and satisfying. “I’ll turn myself in. For everything.”

 

TBC

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've moved to a different work-unit and have not had the mental capacity to think, let alone be creative after work to even write. Tragiiiiic!
> 
> But here we are! An update. A little shorted than previous chapters, maybe a little different in tone coz there's too much dialogue but hayyyy it's done!
> 
> Hopefully a new chapter won't take this long! I'm back on a bit of a roll and I plan to take full advantage!
> 
> Thoughts? Rant? Steve turning himself in? Oh boy! 
> 
> Thank you for reading! Feel free to hit me up at at tumblr (pinkcatharsis) or Discord (pandashi#7565) :D

**Author's Note:**

> This story arc will be divided into series. This fic will not be longer than 2-3 chapters maximum, majority of it in Steve's POV. If you've seen my other works, you'll know that I keep saying that I struggle with Steve's voice. I'm taking this opportunity to really dig into Steve and hopefully get a little more comfortable writing him ~~I'm not worried about Tony.~~
> 
> But yeah, here we are! An attempt to a kind of fix it! 
> 
> Series title + fic titles inspired by song titles by Axwell & Ingrosso. ~~I'm so into them right now lol, and it happened to be playing while writing this. I suck with titles, so I'm just going with that playlist.~~
> 
> Tag will be amended as I introduce characters if ever. I only have a basic skeleton of a plan for this fic and no fine details. 
> 
> Thank you for reading! Feel free to hit me up at at tumblr (pinkcatharsis) or Discord (pandashi#7565) :D


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